Richard  Newcomb 


BY 
S.  ELIZABETH  SISSON 


CINCINNATI:    JENNINGS    &    PYE 
NEW    YORK:     EATON    &    MAINS 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BY 
THE  WESTERN  METH- 
ODIST BOOK  CONCERN 


TO  MY  HUSBAND  :  Without  whose 
kindly  co-operation  and  larger  faith  this 
little  "home  story11  had  not  ventured 
from  the  quiet  of  a  parsonage  closet  shelf, 
this  book  is  lovingly  dedicated. 

S.  £.  S. 


2138349 


f>        • 
Contents 


PAGE. 

I.  A  DOUBLE  WEDDING, 7 

II.  A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY — PETER  CARTWRIGHT,  .  18 

III.  GETTING  SETTLED, 36 

IV.  AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS, 45 

V.  CHARACTER  STUDY, 57 

VT.  THE  WAR — AN  ACCIDENT — LOUISE  AND  RICHARD,  70 

VII.  ACADEMY  LIFE,  AND  HOME  EVENINGS, 82 

VIII.  ASBURY'S  DECISION — THE  NEWCOMBS, 92 

IX.  A  LOVE  AFFAIR,  AND  A  MOTHER'S  VIEW  OF  IT,  101 

X.  COLLEGE — A  STUDY  OF  HOMES, 117 

XI.  DEVELOPED  CHARACTERS,    ....•••...  126 

XII.  RICHARD  AND  LOUISE, 136 

XIII.  THE  PREACHER — A  SOPRANO — FLOSSIE,  ....  150 

XIV.  THERESE — BANKRUPTCY, 167 

XV.  JOHN,  THE  YOUNGER, 180 

XVI.  A  VISIT — A  RESULT — LEAVING  THE  FARM,    .   .  193 

XVII.  GETTING  SETTLED — LIFE  IN  A  COLLEGE  CLUB,  .  206 

XVIII.  AN  ORATORICAL  CONTEST — SAD  ENDING,    .   .    .  217 
5 


5  CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

XIX.     "FAREWELL,  LIFE  CHOICE," 228 

XX.     THERESE — ON  BOTH  SIDES  OF  AN  OCEAN,  .   .   .  243 

XXI.     SOME  GRADUATES — A  WEDDING, 255 

XXII.     SEPTEMBER — A  LETTER, 266 

XXIII.  A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK, 275 

XXIV.  A  RETROSPECT — A  WEDDING — DEATH  OF 

RICHARD  NEWCOMB, 291 

XXV.    A  FAMILY  REUNION — GATHERED  THISTLES,  .  .  302 


Richard  Newcomb 

18 


A   Double  Wedding 

THE  time  was  away  back  in  the  Forties,  and 
the  morning  was  one  of  the  balmiest  in  blos- 
som-crowned May,  when  Lynton,  a  little  Ne\v 
England  village,  was  strangely  astir. 

It  was  easy  to  see,  upon  ever  so  slight  an  in- 
vestigation, that  this  unusual  activity  centered 
in  the  rustic,  ivy-covered  village  church;  for  the 
sound  of  merry  young  voices  from  within  was 
borne  out  upon  the  fragrant  air  through  the 
doors,  which  stood  invitingly  open.  A  glance 
through  them  showed  a  group  of  the  village  young 
people,  who,  with  evergreens  and  flowers,  were 
making  the  plain,  almost  stern  walls  of  the  room 
radiant  with  beauty. 

This  all  in  preparation  for  a  much-anticipated 
7 


8  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

event,  a  double  wedding.  As  the  wedding-hour 
is  rapidly  nearing,  it  may  be  well  to  have  an 
introductory  word  concerning  not  only  the  happy 
couples  who  are  to  be  the  principals  in  the  event, 
but  the  quaint  little  village  of  Lynton  as  well. 
"Picturesque  Lynton"  its  friends  lovingly  call  it. 

The  latter  was  situated,  as  has  already  been 
said,  in  one  of  the  New  England  States.  A  por- 
tion of  it  appeared  to  half  cling  or  perch  upon 
the  rocky  hill  upon  which  it  was  built;  the  re- 
mainder stretched  on  across  Hazel  Run,  a  tiny 
stream,  losing  itself  in  the  fertile  meadow  beyond, 
the  only  bit  of  land  near  about  really  suitable  for 
tillage. 

In  the  hill-clinging  part,  in  a  very  brown, 
weather-beaten  cottage,  Rachel  Ewing  lived  with 
her  father  and  mother,  she  being  the  eldest  in  a 
large  family. 

There  is  a  bit  of  yard  in  front  of  the  cottage, 
scrupulously  clean,  while  a  rocky  walk,  bordered 
on  either  side  by  beds  of  springing  crocuses  and 
gorgeous  Easter  flowers,  leads  up  to  the  open 
door,  through  which,  on  this  same  May  morning, 
the  breezes  come  in  unhindered. 

Though  the  furnishings  are  very  plain,  how 
tidy  and  homelike'  is  the  little  front  room!  A 
bright  rag-carpet  is  upon  the  floor.  Filling  that 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  9 

side  of  the  room  nearest  the  fireplace  is  a  long, 
wooden  settee,  or  "settle,"  with  rockers,  which, 
nearly  covered  as  it  is  with  a  great  bearskin, 
hints  at  a  resting-place  for  the  family  in  its  hours 
of  relaxation,  or  an  ever-ready  cradle  for  sleep- 
ing babyhood. 

Besides  this,  there  are  some  wooden  chairs, 
and  in  an  opposite  corner  a  stand,  upon  which 
we  notice  a  substantially  leather-bound  family 
Bible,  a  Book  of  Psalms  set  to  music,  and  a  few 
other  volumes,  mostly  of  the  sterner  religious  kind 
of  the  day ;  for  Jacob  Ewing  was  a  God-fearing 
man.  Daily  had  his  children  seen  him  take  down 
the  Bible,  and  heard  him  read,  in  an  awesome 
voice,  lessons  for  their  guidance. 

At  the  rear  of  the  house  stood  a  great  apple- 
tree,  under  whose1  spreading  branches,  during 
many  a  happy  hour,  the  children  of  the  home  had 
found  a  delightful  playground.  This  to-day  had 
yielded  a  part  of  its  treasures  for  the  room's  adorn- 
ment. 

On  either  side  of  the  ancient  clock,  which 
stood  in  the  exact  center  of  a  very  tall,  wood 
mantel,  was  a  bowl  of  fragrant  applerlDlossoms ; 
while  in  a  little  room  just  back  of  the  one  that 
has  engrossed  our  attention,  deft  fingers  are 
pinning  sprays  of  the  same  swe'et  blossoms  at  the 


io  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

throat,  and  twining  others  in  the  hair,  of  fair 
young  Rachel,  one  of  the  brides,  for  whom  ever- 
greens and  flowers  are  gracing  the  village 
church. 

The  stiff,  yet  relentlessly  exact  finger  of  the 
old  family  clock  points  the  hour  at  which  the 
walk  to  the  church  shall  begin,  and  John  Steven- 
son, Rachel's  lover,  comes  in  to  claim  his  bride. 

Amid  the  hurry  (yes,  and  heartaches)  of  this 
supreme  moment,  we  turn  and  speed  down  the 
rocky  street,  and  on  across  the  little  wooden 
bridge.  Here  the  houses  are,  perhaps,  not 
cleaner  nor  yet  more  homelike  than  in  the  hilly 
part;  but  a  more  liberal  use  of  paint,  sliutters  at 
the  windows,  and  here  and  there  a  pretentious 
two-story,  tells  of  greater  worldly  prosperity. 

At  the  gateway  leading  up  to  one  of  the'  most 
comfortable  of  these  homes  stands  an  old  family 
carryall,  and  just  now,  coming  out  from  her 
mother's  doorway  (her  father  having  lain  in  the 
churchyard  more  than  a  year),  is  Margaret 
Allen,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  William  New- 
comb,  whose  name  she  is  so  soon  to  bear. 

Now,  while  the  two  bridal  parties  are  on  the 
way  to  the  church,  there  will  be  time  for  a  hasty 
glance  at  the  home  of  Margaret,  and  to  glean 
something  of  the  history  of  the  two  girls. 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  n 

From  the  day  when  Rachel  Ewing  and  Mar- 
garet Allen  first  trudged  off  together  to  the  vil- 
lage school,  a  peculiar  friendship  had  existed  be- 
tween the  two.  Though  Margaret's  father  had 
owned  much  of  the  fertile  meadow-land  beyond 
the  village,  while  Rachel's  could  claim  as  his  own 
but  the  weather-beaten  cot  that  housed  his  bairns ; 
yet  so  sturdy  and  common-sense  was  the  New 
England  atmosphere  of  that  day,  that  because  of 
the  honesty  of  purpose  and  integrity  of  heart 
which  Jacob  Ewing  was  known  to  possess,  he 
stood  quite  as  high  in  the  esteem  of  his  neigh- 
bors as  though  broad  acres  had  been  his;  hence 
there  had  not  been  a  thought  of  anything  incon- 
gruous in  the  abiding  friendship  between  the 
girls. 

Together  they  had  sat  on  the  low,  wooden 
benches  of  the  school;  later  on,  their  voices  had 
rung  out  together  in  song  in  the  church,  in  whose 
communion  each  had  been  raised.  It  was  fitting, 
therefore,  that  to-day  they  should  stand  together 
at  its  simple  chancel,  while  the  mystic  words  were 
said  that  should  change  them,  at  a  bound,  from 
light-hearted  girls  into  women,  looking  fearlessly 
into  the  face  of  the  future. 

The  interest  of  the  entire  village  had  centered 
in  this  event;  for  not  only  were  the  young 


12 


people  well  known  and  loved,  but  it  was  further 
known  that,  on  the  morning  following  the,  mar- 
riage, they  were  to  leave  forever  their  village 
home,  make  the  long  journey  westward,  and  that 
somewhere  on  those  Western  prairies,  of  whose 
dangers  rumor  had  much  to  say,  two  new  homes 
would  arise.  The  two  great  covered  wagons 
that  were  to  bear  them  westward  had  stood,  for 
the  last  week,  back  of  the  village  smithy,  objects 
of  supreme  interest ;  hence  it  was  not  strange 
that  at  an  early  hour  the  church  had  been  filled 
with  an  eager  assemblage  of  friends.  After  this 
digression,  we,  too,  will  join  the  waiting  assembly, 
and  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  if,  as  the  wedded 
pairs  slowly  pass  down  the  aisles,  we  turn  with 
the  audience  for  a  passing  glance. 

John  Stevenson  and  his  bride,  Rachel,  are  in 
front.  There  is  no  mistaking  the  plain,  rugged 
honesty  of  his  face,  while  the  browned  hands,  and, 
indeed,  the  whole  bearing,  in  some  subtle  man- 
ner, tells  of  a  life-experience  that  has  been  largely 
a  hand-to-hand  struggle  with  a  rocky  New  Eng- 
land farm. 

Unconsciously  to  himself,  though,  there  is  that 
in  the  face  which  proclaims  a  victory  gained.  His 
eyes  rest  lovingly  upon  his  bride  with  an  air  of 
fond,  trustful  proprietorship. 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  13 

Large  of  build,  rugged,  kindly  of  disposition, 
the  student  of  human  nature  sees  at  once  that 
he  will  lean  upon  his  wife,  consult  with  her,  be 
influenced  by  her,  as  neither  she  nor  he  suspects. 
Thus  far,  life  has  held  but  few  joys  for  him;  for 
his  mother  had  died  many  years  ago,  and  with 
her  all  that  might  have  made  his  life  joyous. 
Little  wonder  that  he  invites  the  future. 

And  she?  Beautiful?  They  who  know  her 
best  scarcely  think  of  beauty  in  connection  with 
her;  yet  there  is  no  plainness  in  the  clear  com- 
plexion, nor  in  the  shapely  hands,  though  these 
are  hard  with  toil ;  but  not  one  in  all  that  com- 
pany of  village  folk  is  thinking  of  these,  but  rather 
the  village  heart  has  responded  to  the  loving,  help- 
ful spirit  which  shines  in  the  large  gray — at  times, 
almost  blue — eyes.  As  she  is  passing,  these  ac- 
cidentally rest  for  a  moment  upon  the  eager,  up- 
turned face  of  a  neighbor's  child,  and  in  an  in- 
stant the  little  heart  is  gladdened  by  a  smile  of 
recognition;  and  in  the  smile  and  the  self-forget- 
fulness  that  allowed  it,  is  mutely  reve'aled  that 
innate,  nameless  "something"  which  draws  to  the 
side  of  the  possessor  little  children,  with  their 
childish  trials,  and  dumb  animals,  that  instinctively 
turn  for  protection. 

Though    a    smile    so    readily    comes    to    the 


14  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

mouth,  there  is  a  firmness  about  the  clearly-cut 
lips ;  yes,  a  firmness  that  it  is  easy  to  believe  might 
become  akin  to  sternness.  Somehow,  as  Rachel 
passes  out  of  the  rustic  church,  we  involuntarily 
recall  grewsome  stories  of  young  girl  martyrs, 
and  we  mentally  aver,  this  New  England  girl- 
wife  will  have  abiding  principles  and  maintain 
them. 

If  John  Stevenson  and  his  bride  have  proven 
an  interesting  study,  William  Ne\vcomb  and  his 
fair  Margaret  are  not  less  so.  The  former  had 
come  to  Lynton  but  a  twelvemonth  ago  as  the 
manager  of  a  large  sawmill,  which  was  fast  chang- 
ing the  great  forests  about  Lynton  into  acres  of 
stumps,  which  later  should  give  way  to  waving 
fields  of  ripening  grain. 

So  well  had  he  deported  himself  that  he  had 
not  only  become  a  strong  factor  in  the  village  life, 
winning  the  esteem  of  all,  but  the  love  of  beautiful 
Margaret  Allen  as  well.  It  is  easy  to  see  that 
nature  has  cast  him  in  an  entirely  different  mold 
from  that  of  rugged  John  Stevenson.  There  is 
a  restless  acuteness  about  the  eyes  which  indi- 
cate greater  business  ability,  and  about  him  an 
easy  air,  in  his  smart  new  wedding-suit,  which 
proclaims  an  acquaintance  with  the  world. 

He  is  a  communicant  at  the  altar  of  the  same 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  15 

church  as  are  the  others ;  but  seeing  him,  we 
can  not  repress  a  speculation  as  to  what  would 
be'  his  course  should  duty  and  worldly  prosperity 
clash. 

But  John  Stevenson's  eyes  do  not  rest  more 
lovingly  upon  his  bride's  than  do  William  New- 
comb's  upon  the  fair  Margaret.  However  dif- 
ferent otherwise  they  may  be,  they  are  one  in  love 
for  their  chosen  companions. 

As  has  been  said,  Margaret's  home  had  been 
one  of  comfort  and  plenty.  Her  parents  were 
found  each  Sabbath  among  the  worshipers,  yet 
to  serve  God  had  not  been  with  Richard  Allen, 
as  with  Jacob  Ewing,  the  supreme  motive  of  life. 
Much  dearer  to  him  than  thoughts  of  God  had 
been  his  fertile  acres,  with  accompanying  flocks 
and  herds.  Indeed,  in  his  heart  he  had  fixed  for 
himself  a  creed,  the  liberality  of  which,  had  they 
but  known  it,  would  have  startled  the  staid  people 
with  whom  he  worshiped.  Yet  his  family  under- 
stood it  well,  and  none  better  than  Margaret. 
From  the  time'  she  could  toddle,  she  had  been 
his  chosen  companion. 

As  she  grew  older,  various  traits  peculiar  to 
the  father  appeared  in  the  child,  until  it  came  to 
be  a  family  saying,  "Margaret  is  father  over 
again." 


1 6  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

We  have  already  said  she  was  beautiful.  As 
she  left  the  altar  on  her  wedding-day,  she  looked, 
indeed,  the  embodiment  of  loveliness.  Added  to 
rare  regularity  of  features  were  a  beautiful  form, 
graceful  carriage,  and  an  almost  faultless  com- 
plexion. A  wavy  mass  of  brown  hair  was 
brushed  back  from  the  forehead  and  coiled  about 
the  shapely  head.  Seeing  her,  we  see  a  beautiful 
picture;  yet,  as  with  many  another  picture,  there 
is  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction.  Can  it  be  that  in 
the  graceful  curl  of  those  lips,  in  the  poise  of  that 
delicate  chin,  there  is  a  hint  of  selfishness?  Or 
do  the  eyes,  dark  hazel  as  they  are,  lack  in 
gentleness?  We  can  scarcely  tell.  Yet  the  face 
is  not  one  we  would  care  to  go  to  with  a  heart- 
ache, especially  if,  to  e'ase  the  ache,  self-denial 
would  be  required. 

Just  now  she  is  strong  in  the  new  love  which 
has  stirred  her  heart,  and  she  is  bravely  going 
to  the  hardships  of  pioneer-life.  Indeed,  if  there 
are  any  hardships,  they  are  lost  in  the  strong 
glamour  which  love  and  distance  have  thrown 
about  that  strange  new  life  beyond. 

But  the  last  echo  has  died  out  from  the 
church,  and  each  couple  are  now  in  separate 
homes.  Many  tears  mingle  with  the  wedding 
festivities ;  for  the  covered  wagons  stand  now,  one 


A  DOUBLE  WEDDING  17 

at  Rachel's  and  one  at  Margaret's  door;  and  with 
an  agony  the  young  people  can  not  know  or  guess, 
each  mother  packs  away  in  the  roomy  rear  such 
articles  as  space  will  permit.  There  are  chests 
of  linens,  of  bedding,  jars  of  home-made  sweets, 
and  provisions  for  the  long  journey. 

The  next  day,  amid  sobs  and  he'artaches,  the 
home-nest  is  forever  left.  Groups  of  villagers 
gather  at  the  brow  of  the  hill  from  whence  the 
road  stretches  on  westward.  They  look  long 
and  earnestly,  and  finally  turn  each  to  their 
homes.  They  have  seen  disappear  around  the 
curve  the  last  faint  flutter  of  white.  The  village 
home  of  Rachel  and  Margaret  would  know  them 
no  more. 

The  old,  yet  ever  new,  miracle  had  been  re- 
enacted.  The  stranger  of  yesterday  becomes  more 
than  home,  parents,  or  friends.  Strange?  No; 
for  centuries  before,  He  foreshadowed  this  home- 
leaving  when  he  said,  "They  twain  shall  become 
one  flesh." 

2 


II 

A  Westward  Journey — Peter  Cartwright 

HOWEVER  great  the  sympathy  that  might 
bid  us  linger  with  those  in  the  broken  homes, 
our  interest  henceforth  lies  with  those  just  out 
of  sight,  and  to  them  we  turn. 

Slowly  the  great  wagons  creaked  on.  Mar- 
garet, in  the  agony  of  the  parting,  had  flung  her- 
self upon  an  improvised  couch,  which  loving  hands 
had  provided  for  her  comfort,  and  lay  there  bit- 
terly sobbing.  Rachel,  with  tear-stained  face, 
kept  fluttering  a  bit  of  white  cambric,  as  a  last 
adieu,  until  a  bend  in  the  road  shut  out  forever 
the  little  village.  Presently  the  last  familiar  hill 
or  farmhouse  was  passed.  New  roadside  scenes 
claimed  the  attention,  and  it  began  to  dawn  on 
those  brave'  young  people  that  the  old  life  was 
forever  gone.  Yet  a  future,  fascinating  in  its 
very  strangeness,  awaited  them. 

One  of  the  happiest  qualities  of  youth  is  its 
elasticity.  A  wave  of  sorrow  may  sweep  over 
it,  before  which  it  bows  as  a  sapling  before  a 
storm;  but  such  is  its  natural  spring  that  it 

18 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  19 

speedily  rights  itself  and  is  erect  again.  There- 
fore it  is  not  strange  that  our  young  friends  were 
soon  intensely  interested  in  the  novel  experience 
which  was  theirs. 

There  were  meals  to  be  cooked  by  the  wayside. 
The1  woods  abounded  in  game.  Squirrel  leaped 
among  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  chattered 
noisily  down.  There  were  great  flocks  of  quail 
and  of  wild  turkeys.  More  than  once,  as  they 
came  to  ford  a  stream,  they  would  startle'  a  herd 
of  timid  deer. 

There  was  a  brace  of  trusty  "flintlocks"  in  each 
wagon,  so  the  meals  were  always  supplied  with 
the  choicest  meats.  Then  there'  was  the  novelty 
of  going  to  sleep  with  the  stars  blinking  down 
ever  so  familiarly. 

Nor  were  the  incidents  always  of  the  pleasant- 
est  type.  The  angry  bark  of  hungry  wolves  be- 
came a  familiar  sound  after  nightfall.  Once, 
Rachel  was  awakened  by  an  intruder,  which 
proved  to  be  a  large  black  bear,  poking  his  in- 
vestigating nose  into  the  wagon ;  and  again — 
and  this  proved  a  real  fright — being  left  alone  one 
day  for  a  little  while  at  a  nooning,  the  girl-wives 
were  surprised  by  a  party  of  Indians.  Friendly, 
and  returning  from  a  trading-post — this  they  did 
not  know.  Seeing  that  the  women  were  alone  and 


20  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

unprotected,  and  of  course  frightened,  they 
thought  it  a  good  time  to  indulge  in  a  few  war- 
whoops,  which  they  did,  brandishing  in  the  mean- 
while the  most  ferocious-looking  knives,  and 
giving  free  exhibitions  of  their  skill  with  the  bow, 
winding  up  with  searching  the  wagons  for  trink- 
ets and  valuables,  in  which  pastime  they  were 
interrupted  by  the  return  of  the  men.  After  some 
parleying,  the  unwelcome  visitors  disappeared  in 
the  dense  woods;  not  that  they  were  afraid  of 
the  two,  but  that,  even  at  this  early  date,  they 
had  learned  the  wisdom  of  not  offending  the 
Washington  Great  Father. 

As  has  been  said,  the  journey  began  in  May. 
Many  of  the  streams  were  still  swollen  from  the 
spring  rains,  and  were  without  bridges. 

The  roads  in  many  places  were  not  more  than 
a  bridle-path,  and  were  often  well-nigh  impassable. 
The  plan  of  the  journey  was  to  travel  in  wagons 
to  Pittsburg,  there  embark  upon  flatboats,  and 
journey  down  the  Ohio  River  as  far  as  Cincin- 
nati, already  a  prosperous  city.  Once  there, 
they  expected  to  make  the  remainder  of  the 
journey  westward  in  their  wagons,  which  would 
be'  comparatively  easy,  as  the  route  lay  mostly 
over  the  "National  Road,"  this  being  a  kind  of 
pike  or  "built"  road,  under  national  supervision, 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  21 

as  its  name  indicates,  which,  before  the  era  of 
railroads,  contributed  in  no  small  measure  to  the 
rapid  settlement  of  the  States  as  far  west  as  In- 
diana. 

Wonderful  stories  of  the  rich  prairies  that 
formed  so  large  a  part  of  that  great  western  Ter- 
ritory known  as  Illinois  had  reached  their  east- 
ern home.  These  marvelous  tales  of  the  soil's 
fertility,  as  well  as  the  unusual  business  facilities, 
had  made  this  the  objective  point. 

So,  keeping  this  end  in  view,  they  jolted  on, 
day  after  day,  on  this  strange  bridal  journey. 

The  modern  young  husband  buys  a  ticket, 
and  he  and  his  bride  whirl  rapidly  away.  They 
"do"  mountain  or  seaside  resort,  or  tip  waiters 
in  European  hotels,  and  return,  at  length,  weary 
to  their  homes,  already  disgusted  with  life — 
happily  if  not  with  each  other. 

Our  old-fashioned  lovers  proceeded  more 
slowly.  What  if  now  and  then  the  road  was 
rough,  or  there  was  a  half  hour's  intense  anxiety 
in  crossing  a  swollen  stream?  The  greater  part 
of  the  time  the  skies  were  blue ;  birds,  in  all  the 
ecstasy  of  home-building,  sang  for  them  their 
most  joyous  notes ;  flowers,  daintier  than  ever 
grew  'neath  glass  roofs,  blossomed  for  them ;  and 
— O  all-sufficient  fact — they  had  each  other ! 


22  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

And  what  with  plans  for  the  homes  that  were  to 
be,  the  days  were  none  too  long,  and  Pittsburg 
was  at  length  reached. 

Good  weather  attended  the  travelers  in  their 
float  down  the  Ohio.  The  flatboats  in  which  they 
journeyed  had  a  kind  of  sheltered  room 
(cabin)  for  the  passengers,  and  an  inclosed  outer 
deck  for  the  wagons  and  horses.  Black  Nell, 
one  of  the  horses  John  had  driven,  rebelled  at 
this  new  experience,  and  caused  quite  a  commo- 
tion one  night  by  an  attempt  to  jump  overboard; 
but  at  length,  like  many  a  human,  found  it  best 
to  become  reconciled  to  the  inevitable. 

In  all  Rachel's  life  she  had  not  known  so  much 
leisure,  and  it  was  to  her,  as  well  as  Margaret, 
a  never-ceasing  delight  to  watch  the  green, 
shadowy  outlines  of  the  gliding  shores,  the  plash 
of  the  water  about  the  boat,  and  the  strange  life' 
about  them. 

At  Cincinnati  they  disembarked,  and  certainly 
the  world  was  going  "west;"  for  there  were 
many  covered  wagons  like  their  own,  and  in 
company  with  some  of  these  they  again  turned 
their  faces  westward,  this  time  traveling  over  the 
anticipated,  well-built  National  Road. 

They  no  longer  had  the'  world  to  themselves; 
for  covered  wagons  were  everywhere.  Some, 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  23 

new  and  smart,  like  their  own.  Under  flapping 
canvas  were  hearts  as  brave  and  light  as  their 
own.  Some  were  weather-beaten  and  travel- 
stained.  Some  of  these  held  discouraged-looking 
men  and  tired  women,  who  strained  their  eyes 
toward  the  west,  and  hoped  it  were  "better 
farther  on."  Behind  some  of  the  wagons  the 
family  cow  was  tied,  who  at  times  protested  at 
her  halter,  and  bawled  for  green  pastures  left  be- 
hind. Beside  some  of  the  wagons  little  children 
trudged — sometimes  in  the  frolicsomeness  of 
childhood,  sometimes  preternaturally  old  and 
tired,  or  laid  themselves  down  on  the  hard  cot  of 
the  wagon  in  pain  and  with  burning  fever.  Once 
our  travelers  came  upon  a  group  by  the  roadside. 
No  need  to  ask  questions.  A  little  open  grave, 
dug  under  a  friendly  beech;  a  still,  baby  form; 
and  the  agonized  sobs  of  a  young  mother,  for 
whom  the  sun  would  never  shine  the  same  again, — 
told  the  story  of  hardships  that  had  proven  too 
great.  Brave-hearted  pioneers !  There  is  danger 
that  in  the  completeness  of  our  civilization  to-day 
we  forget  with  what  sacrifice  the  foundations 
were  laid. 

Our  friends  might  have  gone,  as  did  many 
emigrants  of  that  day,  the  entire  journey  down 
the  Ohio  and  then  up  the  Mississippi;  but  the 


24  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

added  cost  was  a  barrier;  besides,  they  wanted 
to  judge  for  themselves  of  the  country  and  of 
the  best  place  to  locate'.  Finally,  Indianapolis, 
then  a  thrifty  young  city,  was  reached;  and  still 
the  horses'  heads  were  turned  westward,  till  the 
Wabash  Valley  was  reached. 

"O  dear!"  groaned  Margaret.  "Why,  what 
kind  of  a  road  is  this  ?"  She  might  well  ask ;  for 
just  then  the  front  wheels  of  the  wagon  gave  a 
lurch  downward,  and  the  horse  gave  a  sudden 
pull,  or  Margaret  would  certainly  have  been 
thrown  to  the  ground.  These  plunges  and  jerks, 
amid  the  worst  specimen  of  mud  the  travelers 
had  yet  encountered,  continued  throughout  the 
day,  causing  more  discomfort  than  they  had  yet 
known.  The  delightsome  "National"  having 
ended,  they  were  now  experiencing  a  stretch  of 
"corduroy  road,"  which,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
modern  bicycler  on  asphalt,  it  may  be  well  to 
explain,  was  made  by  cutting  lengths  from 
trees  of  various  sizes,  and  laying  them  crosswise 
in  the  slush  or  mud.  Thus  a  sort  of  underpinning 
of  saplings  was  made.  As  there  was  no  uni- 
formity in  the  size  of  the  lengths,  and  as  they 
became  in  time  pushed  out  of  place,  the  jolting 
can  be  better  imagined  than  described.  But  bad 
as  the  "corduroy"  was,  it  was  the  best  device 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  25 

known  to  the  "fathers"  to  make  these  newly 
cut-out  roads  through  woodland  and  thicket 
passable. 

It  is  little  wonder  that  all  rejoiced  when  the 
smart  young  city  of  Springfield  was  reached,  where 
they  had  decided  to  stop  for  a  time  until  they 
could  decide  upon  a  location. 

Among  the  travelets  they  had  fallen  in  with 
during  their  journey  were  several  who  were  loud 
in  their  praises  of  Burrtonville,  a  mere  stripling 
of  a  town  on  the  Illinois  River.  These1  agreed 
that  this  place  must  shortly  become  a  manufac- 
turing center,  citing  as  arguments  its  superior 
water-power  and  the  enterprise  of  its  citizens, 
shown  already  by  the1  building  of  a  railroad  con- 
necting it  with  the  growing  interior  towns  of  the 
State,  and  promising  on  farther  westward, 
bridging  the  Illinois  itself. 

As  both  Rachel  and  Margaret  needed  rest,  it 
was  decided  that  they  should  remain  where  they 
were,  while  their  husbands  would  join  a  prospect- 
ing party  of  men  who  would  visit  Burrtonville 
and  several  other  points,  if  it  were  necessary. 

Once  there',  it  did  not  take  the  keen,  business 
eye  of  William  Newcomb  long  to  discover  the 
advantages  of  the  young  town.  Moreover,  there 
was  a  chance  of  steady  employment  offere'd. 


26  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Upon  the  banks  of  the  river  stood  a  newly-com- 
pleted flouring-mill,  the  first  and  only  one'  in  all 
that  section  of  the  country.  Already  its  great 
water-whfcel  was  kept  busy  churning  the  water, 
as  it  ground  the  grain  of  many  miles  of  territory. 
By  a  happy  chance  he  secured  a  position  not 
greatly  inferior  to  that  of  manager,  and  so  was 
ready  to  go  back  to  Margaret  with  the  story  of 
his  good  fortune. 

The  rich,  black  soil  of  the  gently-undulating 
prairies  that  crept  up  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
upon  which  the  town  was  built,  charmed  John 
Stevenson,  used  as  he  had  been  to  the  rocky 
hillsides  about  Lynton.  And  he  was  a  happy 
young  man  the  day  he  bargained  for  a  quarter- 
section  that  lay  not  two  miles  from  the  town — 
happy,  though  ye'ars  of  hard  work  and,  as  farmers 
phrase  it,  "good  luck"  must  be  his  before  he 
could  call  these  acres  his  own;  happy,  although 
upon  the  land  there  was  not  a  roof  to  shelter 
either  man  or  beast. 

The  question  of  home's  being  settled,  they  lost 
no  time  in  joining  the  waiting  ones  at  Spring- 
field. These,  although  left  for  a  time  alone,  had 
not  been  unhappy.  The  last  hundred  miles  of 
travel  had  told  on  each,  and  they  welcomed  the 
rest  of  their  quiet  lodging-house.  Besides,  when 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  27 

they  cared  to  go  out,  there  was  much  to  interest 
them  in  the  strange,  new,  western  life.  v 

Their  curiosity  and  interest  were  greatly 
aroused  by  what  they  heard  concerning  a  "gather- 
ing" in  the  neighborhood — new  and  strange  to 
them;  but  certainly,  from  the  conversation  about 
them,  a  feature  of  the  new  life.  This  gathering 
was  called  a  "camp-meeting,"  and  was  well 
named;  for  many  would  come  from  miles  distant, 
as  well  as  nearer  at  hand,  bring  with  them  a  lew 
articles  necessary  for  their  comfort,  camp  out  in 
the  big  stretch  of  woodland  called  the  "camp- 
ground," and  spend  days,  or  even  weeks,  in  re- 
ligious service.  But  such  strange  stories  as  were 
told,  not  only  of  these  services,  but  of  the  min- 
ister in  charge !  Indeed,  his  original  sayings  were 
a  fruitful  theme  among  their  fellow-lodgers  at 
every  meal. 

"Well,  whatever  happens,"  both  Rachel  and 
Margaret  agreed,  "we  must  visit  these  grounds, 
and  see  for  ourselves  before'  we  go  further."  To 
this  their  husbands,  upon  their  return,  readily 
assented,  and  the  next  day  they  set  out  to  attend 
an  evening  service. 

The  "camp-ground,"  as  has  been  said,  con- 
sisted of  several  acres  of  heavy  woodland,  afford- 
ing plenty  of  shade  for  men,  women,  and  chil- 


28  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

dren — and  horses.  An  attempt  had  been  made 
to  clear  out  the  underbrush  and  to  cut  away 
enough  of  the  trees  to  allow  a  central  meeting- 
ground. 

As  the  party  drove  into  the  deep  shade  of  the 
woods,  a  weird  scene  presented  itself.  Rude 
shelters  were  erected  by  the  campers.  About 
some  of  these,  women  were  busy  with  the  evening 
meal.  Echoes  of  a  camp-meeting  song,  or  the 
voice  of  earnest  supplication  in  some  neighboring 
tent  (tent  by  courtesy),  told  of  zealous  prepara- 
tion for  the  grand  evening  service.  Great  flaring 
tallow-dips,  nailed  here  and  there  to  the  trees, 
lent  an  uncanny  air  to  the  whole,  which  was  not 
lessened  by  the  glare  of  burning  brush-heaps 
located  in  different  parts  of  the  grounds,  and  fed 
by  men  and  boys,  which  served  a  double  purpose, 
as  the  visitors  learned  before  the  evening  was 
through — that  of  lighting  the  grounds,  as  well 
as  furnishing  an  ever-present  illustration  to  the 
preacher  of  what  awaited  those  who  scoffed  at  his 
exhortation:  "Turn  ye!  O  turn  ye!  Why  will 
ye  die?" 

The  crowd  was  gathering  in  the  straw-littered 
inclosure  where  the  services  were  held,  and 
thither,  too,  went  our  friends.  The  platform 
upon  which  the  preacher  stood  had  been  made 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  29 

by  felling  two  trees  of  about  the  same  size,  cut^ 
ting  away  the  tops  and  branches,  and  arranging 
upon  them  a  puncheon  floor.  The  utility  of  the 
platform  was  further  enhanced  by  a  clapboard 
roof,  the  back  and  sides  being  formed  of  closely- 
interwoven  branches  cut  from  trees. 

But  the  settings  of  the  picture  faded  into 
insignificance  before  the  preacher  and  the  preach- 
ing. Surely  there  had  never  before  been  heard 
any  so  forceful  or  so  peculiar  in  its  immediate 
effects.  So,  at  any  rate,  thought  our  little  group 
of  New  Englanders. 

Pathos,  sublimity,  caustic  wit,  scathing  rebuke 
of  sin  and  of  sinners,  even  of  individuals,  jostled 
each  other  on  the  lips  of  the  preacher,  who  was 
none  other  than  Peter  Cartwright,  one  of  the 
most  unique  personalities  of  the  Illinois  of  that 
day.  Tall  and  of  rugged  build,  with  hair  brushed 
back  in  a  kind  of  shock  from  his  forehead,  he 
towered  a  very  giant,  who  had  come  to  announce' 
the  destruction  of  the  wicked.  His  eyes,  keen 
and  searching,  looked  out  from  under  shaggy 
brows,  or  flashed  fire  when  a  miscalculating  band 
of  rowdie's  thought  to  intimidate  preacher  or 
congregation.  What  caught  and  held  the  atten- 
tion of  our  friends  was  the  personal  directness  of 
the  discourse.  The  preacher  taught  and  urged 


30  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

a  distinct  work  of  grace  in  the  heart — not  to- 
morrow, not  next  week,  but  now — and  a  conse- 
cration of  one's  life,  whatever  be  the  calling,  to 
the  Lord. 

And  then,  the  genuine  oratory!  There  was 
something  about  this  preacher  that  held  the 
breathless  attention  of  the  people.  We  call  it 
"oratory,"  but  who  could  analyze  it?  There  was 
in  it  fearlessness,  certainly;  there  was  earnest- 
ness ;  and  shall  we  not  believe  there  was  a  Di- 
vine gift  for  the  occasion?  Whatever  the  secret, 
the  fact  remains  that,  when  the  preacher  was  at 
his  best,  the  audience  became  as  one  great  indi- 
vidual, upon  whose  heart-strings  he  played  as  does 
the  minstrel  upon  the  harp,  and  they  were 
swayed  as  is  the  forest  by  a  great  wind.  An  in- 
stance of  this  power  had  occurred  only  a  few 
evenings  before.  The  preacher  was  picturing  the 
terrors  of  the  judgment-day.  With  the  skill  of 
a  true  artist,  color  after  color  was  laid  on — now 
somber,  now  lurid,  always  awful.  The  congrega- 
tion became  breathless ;  the  strain,  intense.  A 
supernatural  stillness  reigned,  broken  only  by 
here  and  there  a  suppressed  shudder  or  sob. 
Suddenly  he  paused,  leaned  over,  and,  in  an 
awed  whisper,  uttered  the  one  sentence,  "List! 
He  cometh!" 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  31 

As  it  happened,  a  very  short  distance  from 
the  grounds  there  was  a  wooden  bridge,  with  a 
floor  of  loose,  clattering  boards,  and  as  the  echoes 
of  the  speaker's  voice  died  away,  a  wagon  was 
driven  noisily  across.  The  noise,  coming  as  it  did, 
seemed  supernatural.  A  woman  dropped  upon 
her  knees,  and  shouted,  "Hear  the  rumbling  of 
His  chariot!"  The  effect  on  the  audience  was 
overwhelming.  Instantly  there  arose  a  mingled 
sound  of  groans,  supplicating  prayer,  shouts,  and 
sobs;  and  although  the  cause  of  the  noise  was 
soon  ascertained,  fully  fifty  persons  crowded  for- 
ward to  the  altar,  and  were  converted.* 

But  nothing  out  of  the  usual  course  occurred 
upon  the  occasion  of  the'  visit  of  our  young 
friends.  The  sermon  was  followed  by  the  usual 


*  It  was  the  privilege  of  a  member  of  the  writer's  fam- 
ily to  be  present  at  a  camp-meeting,  in  the  summer  of  1897, 
when  an  old  gentleman,  known  alike  for  his  intelligence 
and  culture,  as  well  as  for  his  deep  piety,  in  giving  his 
testimony,  related  the  above  incident.  He  was  not  unaware 
of  the  prevailing  spirit  of  criticism,  even  in  the  Church,  of 
anything  bizarre  or  unnatural.  He  added,  by  way  of  testi- 
mony, that  he  had  personally  watched  the  religious  career 
of  the  entire  number.  Many  had  died  in  the  faith  tri- 
umphant, and  all  who  remained  "were  happy  on  the 
way."  He  closed  his  testimony  by  adding,  "  Personally, 
I  have  always  thanked  God  for  the  providence  of  the 
wagon." 


$2  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"altar  service."  And  such  a  service !  How  they 
crowded  the  rude  wooden  bench,  young  and  old! 

Presently  a  sister  "got  religion." 

"Look !  look  at  her  face !"  said  Rachel,  ex- 
citedly, pulling  John's  sleeve,  that  he  might  see 
the  wonderful  transformation;  for  it  was  trans- 
formed. The  woman  was  plain  in  appearance, 
and  evidently  a  daughter  of  toil;  but  about  her 
face  there  was  a  glow  that,  it  is  not  irreverent 
to  say,  brought  to  mind  the  story  of  that  other 
"Transfiguration."  She  began  to  shout,  and 
others  took  up  the  strain.  Back  in  the  congrega- 
tion, a  little  knot  has  gathered  about  a  prostrate 
form.  It  is  that  of  a  man  who  has  been  "seeking" 
for  several  days.  He  lies  rigid,  motionless,  and, 
to  all  appearances,  dead.  His  friends,  nothing 
alarmed,  sing  and  pray,  and  wait  for  him  to 
"come  through,"  which  he  does  after  a  time,  with 
shouts  of  joy. 

Strange,  blessed  history  of  the  pioneer 
Church !  The  so-called  refinement  of  a  later  day 
may  smile,  and,  with  delicately-pursed  lips,  may 
whisper,  "Mere  eccentricities !"  But,  after  all,  it 
is  borne  in  upon  us  that  these  fathers  and  moth- 
ers in  Israel  really  "got"  a  "something"  that 
lifted  them  above  the  hardships  of  a  frontier  life ; 
a  "something"  that,  in  many  instances,  trans- 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  33 

formed  the  wickedest  into  the  most  devout;  a 
"something"  that  implanted  that  far-seeing  self- 
denial  which  founded  the  colleges  and  built  the 
churches,  which  together  have  made  to-day's 
boasted  civilization  possible.  In  short,  they 
"came  through"  to  such  a  high  type'  of  Christian 
life  that  we  may  well  withhold  our  criticism  and 
be  proud  to  do  them  homage. 

When  John  and  Rachel  Stevenson  found 
themselves  alone  that  night,  there  was  a  quiet  talk 
between  them,  and  as  a  result  of  the  evening's 
strange  service,  a  consecration  of  their  lives,  in 
a  sense  different  from  anything  they  had  ever 
known,  took  place.  In  an  adjoining  room, 
William  and  Margaret,  too,  discussed  what  they 
had  heard  and  seen;  but  with  them  a  sense  of 
the  grotesque,  eccentric,  and  rude  held  chief 
place,  and  furnished  not  a  little  amusement. 

The  hospitality  and  welcome  accorded  to 
strangers  were  a  marked  feature'  of  the  times,  and 
the  little  party  made  many  acquaintances  before 
leaving  the  grounds,  among  whom  was  Mr.  Cart- 
wright  himself.  Though  his  eyes  may  have 
flashed  fire  as  he  rebuked  an  offender,  there  was 
no  mistaking  their  kindly  spirit  as  he  questioned 
them  concerning  their  plans.  Lovingly  as  a  fa- 
ther might,  he  urged  the  immediate  duty  of  identi- 
3 


34  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

fying  themselves  with  Christian  people,  pointing 
out  that  the  habits  formed  in  the  first  years 
would  shape  the'  whole  life.  While  talking,  he 
drew  from  the  cavernous  depths  of  a  pair  of 
saddlebags  near  at  hand  some  books  and  a  few 
copies  of  a  newspaper. 

For  a  moment  he  paused,  while  from  under  the 
shaggy  brows  a  look,  at  once'  keen  and  critical, 
darted  from  one  to  the  other.  Then  he  continued : 
"You  will  want,  in  the  new  home,  not  only  relig- 
ion as  a  corner-stone,  but  intelligence,  and  whether 
you  read,  and  what  you  read,  will  come  to  mean 
everything;  therefore,  however  small  your  in- 
come, I  entreat  you,  spend  a  part  of  it  for  good 
books.  Further,  if  the  homes  you  build  are  to 
be  intelligent  in  the  best  sense,  you  will  need  a 
kind  of  current  Christian  literature  which  even 
books  do  not  supply.  Here  are  a  few  copies  of 
a  periodical  designed  to  meet  this  ne'ed.  Take 
them ;  perhaps  their  reading  may  make  these  last 
few  miles  of  your  journey  pleasanter." 

Then,  telling  them  that  he  would  see  them 
again,  as  Burrtonville  was  one  of  his  preaching- 
points,  he  bade  them  God-speed. 

The  following  morning  the  last  stage  of  their 
journey  was  resumed.  William  had  much  to  tell 
Margaret  of  the  new  home  and  business,  and 


A  WESTWARD  JOURNEY  35 

neither  gave  more  than  a  passing  thought  to  the 
kindly  advice  of  their  new  friend.  But  in  the 
rear  wagon,  John  and  Rachel  jolted  on,  and  at 
times  their  conversation  was  as  serious  as  even 
the  zealous  Mr.  Cartwright  could  have  desired. 


Ill 

Getting  Settled 

ANOTHER  day  and  night  found  these  emigrants 
/~V  in  what  was  to  be  their  new  home,  Burrton- 
ville.  When  each  had  grown  to  be  old,  they 
never  forgot  the  strange  newness  and  unfinished 
appearance  of  the  town.  The  streets  were  yet 
grassy,  and  such  little  houses !  Nearly  all  of  logs. 
Still,  there  was  an  air  of  bustling  activity.  People 
went  about  as  if  there  was  a  world  to  build,  and 
but  a  little  time  to  build  it  in;  and  none  caught 
the  contagion  quicker  than  William  Newcomb. 
He  at  once  began  work  in  the  mill,  and  in  a  little 
cottage,  conveniently  near,  Margaret  began  her 
housekeeping. 

This  little  home  was  very  plain  on  the  out- 
side, but  warm  and  cozy  within,  and  soon,  under 
the  deft  touches  of  Margaret's  hands,  the  "home 
air"  began  to  grow. 

As  for  the  Stevensons,  the  season  was  so  far 
advanced,  the  staple  crop  of  corn  could  not  be 
raised  on  the  farm ;  so  a  few  vegetables  for  use 
were  planted,  and  preparations  were  made  for 

36 


GETTING  SETTLED  37 

sowing  wheat  later  on.  There  being  no  house, 
John's  first  care  was  to  build  one,  in  the  mean- 
while renting  a  room  in  Burrtonville  till  it  should 
be  completed.  Very  soon  a  log-house  of  two 
rooms  was  ready  for  occupancy,  into  which  they 
at  once  moved.  This  may  not  have  looked  invit- 
ing from  the  outside;  for  the  logs  were  rough- 
hewn,  the  spaces  between  the  logs  or  "chinks" 
were  mortar-filled,  and  the  gre'at  outside  chimney 
hinted  at  comfort  rather  than  beauty.  But  inside ! 
Ah !  when  the  great  fire  began  to  crackle  in  the 
capacious  fireplace,  as  it  did  in  the1  early  autumn; 
when  John,  weary  of  his  day's  work  of  digging 
or  plowing,  came  home  late  in  the  evening  to  find 
a  savory  supper  awaiting  him,  and  an  earnest, 
strong  face  that  lighted  at  his  coming, — you 
would  then  have  forgotten  the  rough  outside,  had 
you  seen  this,  and  would  have  exclaimed,  "I  have 
found  a  home." 

A  rude  stable  was  built  for  the  faithful  ani- 
mals that  had  journeyed  with  them ;  a  well  dug, 
and  provided  with  a  gre'at  "sweep,"  which  lent  a 
picturesqueness  to  the  scene.  With  these  prepa- 
rations they  considered  themselves  ready  for  the' 
first  winter  in  the  West. 

Just  two  miles  distant  was  the  growing, 
spreading  town  of  Burrtonville,  constantly  calling 


38  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

for  workers.  Here,  when  the  weather  prevented 
further  work  on  the  farm,  he  worked,  that  he 
might  have  something  "ahead"  when  the  spring 
should  call  him  back  to  the  farm. 

While  the  young  husbands  were'  busy,  each  at 
his  choserr  work,  time  might  have  seemed  long 
and  wearisome  to  the  girl-wives  had  it  not  been 
for  the  old  sweet  friendship,  which  wonderfully 
brightened  these  first  months  of  exile  from 
friends. 

Often  when  John  was  driving  out,  Margaret 
would  accompany  him.  Rachel  would  meet  them 
both  at  the  lane,  and  proudly  escort  Margaret  to 
the  cozy  sitting-room,  where,  perhaps  with 
laughter,  they  would  recall  some  incident  of  the 
long  journey,  or  with  tender  regret  talk  of  the 
dear  old  homes  at  Lynton.  Before  such  a  visit 
had  ended,  Margaret,  with  the  air  of  a  connois- 
seur, would  inspect  Rachel's  great  brood  of  hens, 
interesting  because  they  were  doing  duty,  as  was 
evidenced  by  the  goodly  sum  of  "egg-money"  that 
came  weekly  into  their  owner's  purse;  or  pay 
her  respects  to  the  family  cow,  that  furnished 
these  farmer  folks  with  butter  and  milk. 

Then,  again,  Rachel,  with  a  bit  of  sewing, 
would  spend  a  delightful  day  with  Margaret, 
when  much  the  same  program  would  be  enacted. 


GETTING  SETTLED  39 

But  there  were  stormy  winter  days  and  long 
evenings  when  each  must  stay  by  her  own  fire- 
side. 

These  hours  of  enforced  idleness  might  have 
been  productive  of  what  members  of  a  later 
generation,  when  thrown  upon  their  own  re- 
sources, wearily  designate  as  ennui.  Not  so  at  the 
farm.  To  them  the  earnest  preacher  had  not 
preached  in  vain.  Already  they  had  begun  to  find 
a  new  world  awaiting  them  in  the  few  books  which 
they  owned;  besides,  they  had  come  to  find,  as 
he  had  suggested,  a  welcome  friend  in  their  home 
paper.  In  it  were  helpful  suggestions  for  farm 
and  home,  discussions  touching  upon  every 
question  of  Church  or  State,  stories  of  travel  and 
of  biography,  besides  the  weekly  bulletin  of  the 
great  onward  march  of  the  Church  of  Christ. 
After  an  evening  spent  around  his  fireside,  read-' 
ing  aloud  to  interested  Rachel,  and  talking  over 
with  her  the  subjects  discussed,  this  young 
farmer  went  about  his  tasks  in  a  different  spirit. 
He  was  no  longer  the  plain,  individual  John 
Stevenson,  working  out  his  own  little  problem  of 
existence,  but  a  unit  of  a  great  whole,  who,  by 
doing  the  duties  of  the  hour,  was  unconsciously 
keeping  step  with  the  onward  march  of  that  great 
army  which  was  ushering  in  a  better  civilization 


40  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

and  bringing  the  world  into  harmony  with  the 
ideal  of  its  Creator. 

More  than  once,  Rachel  tried  to  tell  her  friend 
Margaret  something  of  this  pleasure ;  but  the  lat- 
ter would  laughingly  say :  "O  Rachel,  you  are 
Jacob  Ewing's  own  daughter,  thinking  more  of  a 
creed  than  of  aught  else;"  for,  like  some  others, 
she  refused  to  believe  that  a  Christian  literature 
could  be  other  than  a  creed  exponent. 

Perhaps  of  all  the  old  sweet  associations  at 
Lynton,  nothing  was  so  greatly  missed  as  the 
little  village  church.  Upon  coming  to  Burrton- 
ville,  our  friends  found  that  the  settlers  before 
them  had  taken  pains  at  once  to  see  that  a  place 
for  worship  was  provided.  So  on  a  grassy  knoll 
stood  a  little  "meeting-house."  This,  like  most 
of  its  associates,  was  built  of  logs.  It  differed  in 
denomination  from  that  in  which  our  frie'nds  had 
been  raised,  but  was  one  with  it  in  the  doctrine 
of  right  living. 

Here,  every  two  weeks,  came  a  young  and 
zealous  "circuit-rider,"  and  on  more  state  occa- 
sions "the  elder,"  of  camp-ground  fame,  who 
preached,  as  was  his  wont,  of  free  salvation  and 
the  necessity  for  immediate  repentance. 

On  the  very  first  Sabbath  after  their  arrival 
in  Burrtonville,  four  Church  letters  were  handed 


GETTING  SETTLED  41 

the  young  minister,  and  the  little  congregation 
almost  startled  them  by  the  warmth  of  their 
Western  welcome.  "Yes,  there  are  some  things 
different,"  Rachel  was  saying  to  John  that  night, 
and  her  eyes  had  a  far-away  look  as  the  vision 
of  the  home  church  arose;  "but  these  people  are 
kind,  and  this  is  to  be  our  home',  so  we  can  not 
afford  to  be  critical.  Perhaps  we  can  make  our- 
selves of  use." 

"Such  a  queer  little  church,  and  such  odd 
people!"  was  Margaret's  comment,  as  she  and  her 
husband  together  discussed  the  hearty  handshakes 
and  loud  "Amens"  of  the  morning. 

"Still,  it  is  a  type  of  this  sincere  western  life, 
of  which  we'  are  now  a  part,"  rejoined  her  hus- 
band. "And,"  continued  he,  "as~we  can  not  have 
our  staid  old  pastor,  nor  be  a  part  of  his  well- 
ordered  flock,  neither  is  it  right  for  us  to  live 
out  of  the  Church.  Therefore  let  us  hope,  after 
awhile,  things  will  not  seem  so  strange." 

Margaret  made  no  audible  reply;  but  there 
came  echoing  through  her  mind  remembrances  of 
many  sayings  of  her  father,  as  together  they  had 
tramped  about  the  farm,  and  in  her  heart  she  said, 
"It  amounts  to  but  little  after  all." 

By  this  first  public  step,  both  the  Newcombs 
and  Stevensons  became  well  known.  As  Rachel 


42  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

had  said,  kind  hearts  beat  beneath  the  rough  ex- 
teriors, and  much  interest  was  manifested  in  the 
welfare  of  the  strangers,  and  on  many  an  occa- 
sion a  helping  hand  was  held  out. 

The  Newcombs  really  knew  nothing  of  the 
privations  of  frontier  life ;  for  William  had  a  good 
position,  while  Margaret's  patrimony  had  at  once 
secured  to  them  a  comfortable  home.  But  the 
Stevensons  knew  by  experience  every  phase  of 
home-building.  Still,  they  were  young,  strong, 
and  happy;  each  worked  with  a  will;  and  by  the 
time  spring  had  come,  bringing  the  plowing  and 
sowing,  the  humble  log-house  had  blossomed  into 
a  home.  Much  of  the  furniture  was  of  the  young 
husband's  making.  There  was  a  stand,  very  like 
the  one  in  Rachel's  old  home,  and  on  it  was  a 
family  Bible,  very  like  its  New  England  counter- 
part. Besides,  there  was  a  steadily-growing  pile 
of  carefully-read  books  and  papers. 

One  feature  of  the  room,  purely  ornamental, 
must  not  be  overlooked.  Among  the  treasures 
Rachel  had  brought  from  her  home  had  been  an 
ivy-root  from  the  glossy  green  which  had  crept 
and  clung  to  the  walls  of  the  village  church. 
This  she  planted  in  a  rude  earthen  pot.  Certainly 
Western  soil  did  not  disagree  with  it ;  for  it  grew, 
and,  guided  over  the  little  narrow  window,  spread 


GETTING  SETTLED  43 

itself,  and  growing,  covered  the  rough  logs  with 
a  living  beauty. 

We  will  now  leave  our  young  friends  for  a 
time.  It  will  be  theirs  to  fight  their  own  battles 
with  the  privations  and  experiences  incident  to 
pioneer  life.  We  shall  not  look  in  on  them  again 
until  many  years  have  come  and  gone'.  We  must 
not  fail  to  chronicle  the  fact,  however,  that  by 
the  time  the  old  apple-tree  back  in  Rachel's  girl- 
hood home  had  again  scattered  its  sweet  blos- 
soms to  the  air,  the  Angel  of  Life  had  knocked 
at  the  door  of  each  humble  home.  At  the  New- 
combs'  there  was  rejoicing  over  a  son,  which  the 
happy  young  father  pronounced  as  handsome  as 
his  mother.  In  this  he  was  not  alone;  for  the 
numerous  visitors,  competent  witnesses  all,  said: 
"What  a  wonderful  likeness!  Just  his  mother 
over  again."  But  his  appearance  mattered  little 
to  the  young  mother,  who,  in  a  happiness  of  con- 
tent which  she  had  not  dreamed,  cuddled  close 
to  her  heart  sweet  baby  Richard.  In  the  little  log 
farmhouse,  Rachel,  too,  could  be  found  crooning 
a  lullaby  to  a  dear  little  morsel  of  humanity,  a 
boy,  who  had  John's  own  honest  eyes,  which,  even 
in  its  very  young  babyhood,  looked  about  quite 
as  gravely  as  if  life1  had  already  proven  quite  a 
serious  matter.  But  the  mouth  that  Rachel  kissed 


44  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

was  very  like  her  own,  and  it  was  not  unlikely  that 
something  of  her  own  nature  lay  hidden  there'. 
"What  shall  we  call  the  baby?"  This  question 
remained  unanswered,  even  till  baby  Richard  be- 
gan to  look  knowingly  when  his  name  was 
called.  Finally  it  came  the  "elder's"  time  for  his 
quarterly  visit.  He  had  already  gotten  to  call  the 
hospitable  farmhouse  home ;  so,  of  course,  he' 
must  admire  the  sturdy  boy.  Taking  him  gently 
in  his  arms,  he  said,  "And  is  this  Francis  As- 
bury?"  And  that  night,  John  wrote  in  the  leather- 
bound  family  Bible  the  chosen  name',  Francis 
Asbury  Stevenson. 


IV 

After  Fifteen  Years 

FIFTEEN    years!      How    much    may    happen, 
what    changes   -occur,    in    fifteen    years,    even 
when  the  conditions  are  settled !     But  in  a  new 
western  town,  that  length  of  time  may  stand  for 
a  half-century  in  an  older  community. 

Burrtonville  had  moved  forward  like  a  young 
giant,  and  the  summer  of  1858  looked  down  upon 
a  smart  little  city,  that  was  already  fulfilling  the 
expectations  of  its  early  friends. 

Rows  of  really  good  buildings  lined  the  busi- 
ness streets.  Comfortable  homes,  many  almost, 
luxurious,  had  largely  taken  the  place  of  the  log- 
cabins  of  the  past.  On  the  knoll,  still  green  and 
grassy,  stood  a  neat  frame  church,  with  slender 
spire,  and  rich-toned  bell.  The  little  log  meeting- 
house, itself  the  strongest  factor  in  to-day's  pros- 
perity, has  given  way  to  its  more  dignified  suc- 
cessor. 

As  a  business  center,  Burrtonville  was  attract- 
ing the  attention  of  many.  The  Illinois  River, 
upon  which  it  was  built,  not  only  furnished  a  suf- 

45 


46  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

ficient  water-power  for  the  mills  upon  its  banks, 
and  opened  up  communications  with  the  rapidly- 
growing  interior  towns  of  the  State,  but  through 
its  outlet  into  the  broad  Mississippi  brought  the 
markets  of  the  great  cities  to  the  doors  of  the 
business  men  of  Burrtonville.  Besides  this,  two 
railroads,  with  their  snorting  engines,  now  con- 
nected it  with  the  East  and  North,  and  were  push- 
ing on  to  the  great  Western  beyond. 

For  these  reasons,  and  because  of  having  been 
first  in  the  field  with  its  mill,  Burrtonville  had  be- 
come a  center  of  supply  for  grain  and  flour.  The 
little  flouring-mill,  into  which,  fifteen  years  ago, 
William  Newcomb  entered  as  an  employee,  had 
trebled  its  capacity. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  look  in  upon  its  counting- 
room.  There  at  the  desk  is  the  proprietor,  a  keenly 
alert  business  min,  upon  whom  his  forty  years  sit 
lightly.  We  recognize  the  employee  of  other 
days,  William  Newcomb,  now  everywhere  spoken 
of  as  one  of  Burrtonville's  most  enterprising 
citizens. 

Shortly  after  his  arrival  he  had  grasped  the  finan- 
cial possibilities  of  real  estate,  and  making  some  for- 
tunate investments  was  able  to  make  the  first  pay- 
ment upon  the  mill,  which  was  offered  for  sale. 
Once  in  his  hands,  he  managed  its  business  so  sue- 


AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS  47 

cessfully  that  he  became  its  sole  owner,  and  soon 
became  known  as  a  rich  man,  to  whom  the  little 
world  of  Burrtonville  took  off  its  hat  in  honor, 
after  the  manner  of  the  greater  world  outside. 

About  a  year  before  the  reopening  of  our  story, 
on  one  of  the  best  streets,  his  new  home  had  been 
built.  It  was  large  and  roomy,  of  brick,  and  stood 
in  the  center  of  beautiful,  well-kept  grounds.  While 
a  dweller  in  a  modern  house  might  miss  some  of 
to-day's  luxuries  and  conveniences,  yet  comfort  was 
evidenced  on  every  side.  Through  the  center  ran 
a  great  hall,  on  one  side  of  which  doors  opened  into 
the  large  double  parlors,  whose  side  and  folding 
doors  were  suggestive  of  merry  companies  of  young 
people,  or  statelier  and  more  dignified  ones  of  older. 
From  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  one  entered  the 
"living-room,"  and  the  large  dining-room  beyond; 
and  a  great  oaken  stairway  Jed  on  to  roomy  and 
sunny  chambers  above. 

Over  all  this,  Margaret,  the  girl-wife  of  long 
ago,  is  the  presiding  genius.  In  every  graceful 
poise  of  the  well-rounded  form,  as  well  as  in  the 
still  regular  features,  is  seen  the  maturing  of  the 
old  girlish  beauty. 

Richard,  the  first  born,  is  now  a  bright,  hand- 
some lad  of  fourteen,  while  a  sister — Marie — has 
been  his  playmate  for  twelve  years.  Therese,  the 


48  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

household  pet,  is  a  petite  little  maiden  of  eight 
summers. 

If  fate  has  dealt  thus  kindly  with  those  of  the 
city,  we  turn  with  eager  expectancy  to  the  farm. 

Though  Burrtonville  had  stretched  itself  out  in 
nearly  every  direction,  it  had  not  seen  fit  to  encroach 
upon  the  farm,  so  no  fortuitous  chance  circum- 
stance had  come  to  the  help  of  the  inmates,  yet 
by  patient,  plodding,  self-denying  hard  work  on 
the  part  of  both  John  and  Rachel,  every  foot  of 
the  farm  was  now  their  own,  and  unincumbered 
by  debt  or  mortgage. 

Any  one  who  has  had  an  experience  in  building 
a  home,  or  making  habitable  a  wild  piece  of  landj 
knows  that,  ordinarily,  it  is  the  work  of  years.  Yet 
our  farmer  friends  had  been  patient  and  willing  per- 
sistently to  plod,  so  necessary  outlays  were  met  as 
they  came ;  and  now,  as  we  have  said,  the  farm  is 
theirs.  Necessary  improvements  have  been  made, 
sleek  cows  graze  in  the  pastures,  and  a  great  or- 
chard back  of  the  house  is  a  source  of  enjoyment 
as  well  as  of  profit. 

The  improvement  of  the  farm  itself  was  more 
easily  visible  than  that  of  the  house ;  for  the  family 
still  occupied  the  two  original  rooms  of  the  log- 
house,  with  two  others,  which  their  growing  needs 
had  made  imperative.  A  new  home  had  been 


AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS  49 

planned ;  but  the  one  with  farm  experience  knows 
that  the  comfortable  home  must  come  last.  Yet, 
though  the  house  was  of  logs,  it  was  often  said 
that,  in  all  the  country,  there  was  not  a  more  home- 
like spot  to  be  found. 

It  is  hard  to  analyze  the  something  that  makes 
a  home.  Yet  it  is  none  the  less  a  verity,  which  even 
a  stranger  may  recognize  as  he'  crosses  the  thresh- 
old— a  something  that  draws  alike  those  with  a 
heartache  to  its  fireside  and  the  romping  children 
of  a  neighbor  as  well.  But  whatever  it  might  be, 
this  farm-home  was  certainly  rich  in  its  possession. 

It  may  be  the  happy  group  of  boys  and  girls  it 
now  sheltered  contributed  not  a  little  to  this  "home 
feeling,"  as  they  romped  over  the  rag  carpet  by  the 
great  open  fire,  with  its  "backlog"  and  curious  net- 
work of  "forelog"  and  sputtering  boughs  of  hickory. 

Yes,  the  years  had  been  fraught  with  changes, 
and  among  those  apparent  to  even  the  most  casual 
observer  was  the  remarkable  development  of  char- 
acter, especially  noticeable  in  the  Stevenson's.  Not 
only  for  rugged,  unflinching  honesty  was  John 
known  among  his  neighbors,  but  they  had  come  to 
know  that  as  he  turned  a  furrow  or  sowed  his 
grain  he  did  it  intelligently,  and  many  in  per- 
plexity learned  to  find  a  wise  counselor  in  the  quiet 
man,  who  betrayed  by  bis  conversation  an  unusual 
4 


50  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

familiarity  with  matters  outside  his  daily  life.  But 
it  was  in  the  little  church,  which  had  so  long  ago 
heartily  welcomed  the  strangers,  that  John  and 
Rachel  Stevenson  had  grown  to  be  most  loved, 
most  depended  upon ;  for  during  all  the  years,  with 
a  regularity  equal  to  the  coming  of  the  Sabbath  it- 
self, the  faithful  team  and  light  wagon  bore  the 
family  to  Church.  One  of  the  recent  innovations 
had  been  the  organization  of  a  Sunday-school,  and 
none  could  be  found  so  capable  for  leader  as  the 
erstwhile  timid  John.  And  Rachel,  with  her  years 
of  quiet  home-reading,  was  fitted  to  become  a  valued 
teacher;  indeed,  had  she  lived  in  these  later  years 
of  woman's  organizations  she  would  have  been 
seized  upon  at  once  as  a  "worker."  It  was  curious 
to  note  the  growing  oneness  of  this  twain.  With 
them  the  Scriptural  prophecy  was  being. rapidly  ful- 
filled. Perhaps  the  cause  of  this  lay  in  their  quiet 
farm-life,  every  detail  of  which  was  planned  to- 
gether ;  but  we  are  inclined  to  think  it  began  in  the 
long  winter  evenings,  when,  after  the  roaring,  crack- 
ling hickory  fire  had  begun  to  throw  out  its  richest 
glow,  the  plain  walnut  stand  was  drawn  out  from 
its  corner,  the  candle  lighted,  and  the  reading  be- 
gun. At  first,  when  the  children  were  little,  they 
were  each  tucked  snugly  away  in  their  trundlebed. 
(Years  afterward  they  loved  to  recall  how  they 


AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS  51 

would  lie  awake  as  long  as  possible,  listening  to  the 
rich  cadence  of  their  mother's  voice,  or  to  the 
fuller,  deeper,  yet  not  less  kindly  one  of  their 
father.)  When  they  became  old  enough  it  became 
their  pride,  indeed  a  coveted  honor,  to  take  their 
turn  as  "reader"  for  the  evening. 

Through  these  years  a  determination  for  the 
higher  education  of  their  children  had  been  grow- 
ing, and  had  taken  deeper  root  than  even  they 
guessed.  Together  the  parents  often  talked  over 
the  means  of  attaining  this  end,  and  were  finally 
helped  in  the  solution  of  the  perplexing  question  by 
a  casual  written  suggestion.  Acting  upon  this  they 
decided  that  on  each  child's  tenth  birthday  to  pre- 
sent it  with  a  cow,  the  sole  profits  from  which, 
as  well  as  the  increase,  should  form  a  "college 
fund,"  This  the  parents  hoped  would  not  only 
give  the  children  themselves  an  interest  in  the 
matter,  but  by  the  time  they  needed  it,  furnish 
means  for  an  education. 

They  and  the  Newcombs  were  still  friends,  but 
the  growing  dissimilar  tastes  of  the  two  families 
were  evident. 

From  the  first,  William  Newcomb  had  been  con- 
sumed by  a  desire  to  get  on  in  the  world ;  to  this  he 
bent  all  his  energies.  At  first,  he  liked  to  talk  over 
with  his  young  wife  the  affairs  of  the  mill ;  but  she 


52  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

laughingly  informed  him,  "It  was  too  dreadfully 
prosy ;"  besides,  she  had  no  "head"  for  business,  but 
would  he  not  admire  this  delicate  bit  of  her  own 
embroidery  she  was  fashioning  for  Therese  or 
Marie?  Left  to  himself  he  grew  to  live  in  a  rest- 
less, rushing  manner,  borne  down  by  the  pressure 
of  increasing  business.  He  came  hurriedly  to  his 
meals,  and  when  he  came  home  at  night,  often,  the 
family  had  retired.  Unconsciously  he  grew  away 
from  them,  and  they  from  him.  Margaret,  too,  had 
begun  to  find  life  a  hurried  matter;  for  the  social 
honor  and  homage  paid  to  the  wife  of  a  wealthy — 
and  rapidly  growing  more  so — business  man  grew 
very 'sweet,  and  society  thrust  upon  her  a  hundred 
new  duties.  The  great  parlors  became  the  social 
Center  of  Burrtonville,  and  many  gay  companies 
gathered  there;  for  as  a  hostess  she  had  rare 
charms.  Besides,  she  was  really  a  loving  mother, 
with  great  pride  in  her  beautiful  children,  and  no 
hands  could  fashion  so  well  the  dainty  apparel  as 
her  own. 

What  of  their  Church  relationship  during  all 
these  years?  From  the  first  each,  and  especially 
Margaret,  had  been  critical  of  the  fervid  western 
style,  and  this  feeling  had  grown  with  the  years. 
Had  they  but  kept  themselves  in  touch  and  sym- 
pathy, as  did  the  Stevensons,  with  the  great  re- 


AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS  53 

ligious  world  outside,  they  would  have  recognized 
this  with  which  they  were  connected  as  but  a  unit 
in  the  great  whole,  and  so  had  patience  with  local 
peculiarities  and  failings ;  but  this  they  failed  to  do, 
and  so  during  the  years  gave  less  and  less  of  their 
sympathy,  and  drew  more  and  more  within  them- 
selves. Yet  each  Sabbath  found  them  sitting  de- 
corously in  their  pew.  They  gave  of  their  means 
for  the  support  of  the  Church;  but  as  to  a  self- 
denying  sacrifice  to  carry  forward  the  work,  not 
one  in  all  the  company  of  worshipers  would  have 
expected  it.  So  had  they  found  their  place. 

But  we  have  tarried  too  long  with  the  elders. 
Let  us  turn  to  the  children,  for  with  these  our  in- 
terest centers. 

Richard  Newcomb  was  singularly  like  his 
mother  in  appearance,  with  the  same  beautiful  eyes 
and  mobile  mouth,  and  a  sunny,  happy  disposition 
that  made  him  the  joy  of  the  home.  From  the  time 
he  could  barely  toddle,  his  greatest  delight  had  been 
to  visit  at  the  hospitable  home  of  "Aunt  Rachel." 
As  he  grew  older,  on  such  visits  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  farm  would  be  explored,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  the  great  roomy  cupboard  with  its  possibili- 
ties, or  the  cool  milkhouse  with  its  jars  of  rich 
cream. 

Asbury  Stevenson  was  of  his  own  age,  supple, 


54  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

strong,  and  well  built,  and  shy  upon  the  surface. 
Between  the  boys  there  was  that  indescribable  dif- 
ference that  marks  the  boy  reared  in  the  country 
from  him  familiar  with  town  or  city.  Was  there 
no  other  difference?  Time  will  tell.  These  boys 
were  good  friends;  but  it  was  -Louise,  Asbury's 
sister  and  junior  by  two  years,  who  was  Richard's 
born  comrade,  and  who  accompanied  him  upon 
every  exploring  expedition,  no  matter  how  perilous. 
She  was  a  plump  little  maiden,  with  brown  hair  that 
rippled  back  from  her  forehead,  good  eyes,  and  a 
sunny,  cheery  face.  Yet  if  she,  in  her  plain  ging- 
ham slip  in  which  her  busy  mother  dressed  her,  had 
stood  for  a  moment  by  the  side  of  dainty  Marie 
Newcomb  in  her  garniture  of  frills  and  embroidery, 
not  many  would  have  called  her  beautiful. 

But  her  mother  knew  a  strong  soul  was  locked 
up  in  the  little  breast. 

From  the  first,  Louise  became  the  constant  play- 
mate of  her  brothers.  Did  they  climb  the  loft  to 
search  for  the  hidden  nest  of  Old  Speckle?  Louise 
could  spring  as  nimbly  up  the  ladder  as  they.  Did 
they  play  at  tops?  Louise  could  make  them  spin 
as  well  as  the  most  expert.  She  soon  mastered  the 
mysteries  of  "mumble-peg."  As  for  marbles,  her 
shot  was  as  unerring  as  theirs.  A  tomboy  ?  Well, 
perhaps  she  was.  Yet  mother  was  beginning  to  de- 


AFTER  FIFTEEN  YEARS  55 

pend  more  and  more  upon  the  swift  feet  that  almost 
flew  upon  her  errands,  and  her  marvelously  sweet, 
low  lullaby  often  soothed  the  younger  ones. 

As  has  been  said,  she  and  Richard  were  born 
comrades.  When  he  was  but  six  and  she  four,  they 
played  at  housekeeping  with  all  the  dignity  of 
elders.  In  childish  disputes,  as  whether  the  "house" 
should  be  under  the  old  apple-tree  or  the  great  elm, 
Louise's  strong  will  usually  won.  Sometimes  this 
capricious  little  girl  was  well  pleased  at  the  result. 
Again  she  would  say,  "What  did  you  give  up  for?" 
"Because  I  had  to,"  retorted  Richard. 

"May  be  if  I  was  a  boy  I'd  give  up  every  time !" 
Louise  would  rejoin  contemptuously. 

Asbury  was  from  the  first  a  quiet,  studious  boy, 
and  loved  nothing  so  well  as  to  hear  his  mother 
read,  or,  as  he  grew  older,  read  for  himself.  Besides 
him  and  Louise,  four  other  children  had  come  to 
bless  the  home :  Ruth,  a  quiet  little  girl  of  ten ;  Ed- 
ward and  John,  two  sturdy,  strong,  sinewy  little 
fellows  still  younger;  and  baby  Rose,  not  yet  a 
year  old,  who,  accepting  the  logic  of  events  as  any 
healthy  baby  in  a  large  family  soon  learns  to  do,  lay 
in  her  crib,  crowing  at  a  fleck  of  sunshine  that  fil- 
tered in  through  the  little  window,  or  with  a 
strangely  serious  air  studied  a  set  of  pink  toes  which 
insisted  upon  discarding  socks — a  happy,  healthy 


56  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

baby,  requiring  and  receiving  no  care  beyond  its 
natural  wants.  Rachel  had  begun  to  show  the  ef- 
fects of  these  years  of  toil  and  anxious  motherhood ; 
yet  such  was  her  executive  ability  that  the  domestic 
machinery  moved  with  less  jar  than  in  many  less 
well-ordered  homes  of  smaller  family;  for  each 
child  had  its  appointed  tasks,  which  were  performed 
without  question. 

Therefore  by  means  of  method  there  was  time, 
not  only  for  the  demands  of  the  Church,  but  for 
the  evening  with  books  as  well. 


Having  now  noted  the  changes  wrought  by  the 
years,  and  the  influences  that  are  at  work  to  mold 
the  children  that  gather  about  each  hearthstone,  we 
again  leave  them  for  a  little  space,  knowing  that 
the  harvest  of  seed-sowing  is  rapidly  ripening,  and 
the  inevitable  reaping  must  quickly  begin. 


Character  Study 

IT  was  a  bright,  sunshiny  morning  in  May,  1861, 
eighteen  years  from  that  other  May-day,  when 
the  two  brides  had  gone  out  from  the  village 
church.  In  order  properly  to  celebrate  the  anni- 
versary of  the  event,  the  hospitable  farmhouse 
opened  its  doors  to  their  old-time  friends  of  the 
city.  So  it  came  about  that  the  two  families  gath- 
ered together  around  the  heavily-laden  board. 

How  the  great,  long  table  groaned  under  its 
steaming  and  tempting  burdens !  How,  after  the 
meal,  the  children,  the  younger  ones  at  least,  raced 
and  romped  over  the  farm! 

The  two  older  of  each  family  were  at  school 
in  the  academy;  but  these  were  out  to-day,  osten- 
sibly to  do  honor  to  the  event  of  long  ago.  But  it 
may  be  questioned  if  any  event  of  the  past  could 
possibly  take  precedence  of  or  be  more  than  merely 
a  background  for  the  present  bliss  of  a  jolly  day 
together  on  the  farm — "the  farm,"  which,  to  the 
Newcomb  boys  and  girls,  stood  for  everything  most 
to  be  desired. 

57 


58  RICHARD  NKWCOMB 

We  may  as  well  pause  here  and  explain  that 
the  "academy"  was  an  institution  in  which  the  peo- 
ple of  Burrtonville  were  beginning  to  take  a  just 
pride,  and  which  they  owed  to  the  far-seeing  intelli- 
gence of  the  very  early  settlers.  It  had  grown  with 
the  growth  of  the  town,  until  now  it  had  begun  to 
attract  the  young  people  of  the  country  and  neigh- 
boring towns. 

Asbury  and  Richard  at  seventeen,  and  Louise 
and  Marie,  at  fifteen,  have  outgrown  the  old-time 
scramble  down  the  haystacks,  and,  instead  of  the 
old  play  at  "housekeeping"  under  the  apple-tree, 
there  is  the  great  swing ;  and  just  far  enough  away 
for  a  delightful  ramble,  is  the  shady  woodland,  just 
now  charming  with  its  wealth  of  spring  violets, 
buttercups,  Jack-in-the-pulpits,  and  Sweet  Williams. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  woods,"  exclaim  the  young 
people;  and  a  little  later  we  find  them  searching 
among  the  gnarled  and  outlying  roots  for  the 
"spring  beauties"  that  nestle  there ;  and  we  who  are 
watching  them  observe  that  it  is  Richard  who  gath- 
ers the  choicest  of  these,  and  Richard  who  shyly 
gives  them  to  the  cheery-faced,  light-hearted  girl, 
whose  voice,  as  she  has  walked  by  his  side  on  the 
tramp,  has  gayly  caroled  snatches  of  song-,  as  sweet 
as  that  of  the  thrush  on  the  bough  overhead. 

Nor  could  the  elders  remain  indoors,  and  little 


CHARACTER  STUDY  59 

wonder ;  for  what  seems  more  like  a  creation  fresh 
from  the  hand  of  God  than  does  well-kept  mead- 
ows, green  hillsides,  and  fields  of  growing  grain, 
after  spring  breezes  have  blown  over  them?  So, 
at  least,  thought  the  man  of  business,  as  he  bared 
his  brow  and  drank  in  the  quiet  rural  beauty. 
Something  akin  to  regret  crossed  his  mind  at  the 
contrast  between  this  and  the  rush  and  hurry  of 
his  own  life.  But  no ;  he  could  never  be  content 
with  the  slow,  plodding  life  of  the  farm. 

As  these  two  walked,  Rachel  and  Margaret  lin- 
gered in  the  cozy  sitting-room  for  reminiscences  of 
other  days.  But  each  was  too  busy  a  woman  to 
dwell  long  in  the  past.  The  growing  interests  of 
their  homes  and  children  had  pushed  the  past  far- 
ther and  farther  back.  Not  that  dear  old  Lynton 
was  forgotten.  It  still  remained  as  the  dearest 
and  most  beautiful  picture  silhouetted  forever  upon 
memory.  The  members  of  each  home  circle  were 
yet  borne  in  mind  and  loved,  and  at  times  yearned 
for ;  but  to  each  woman  'had  come  a  very  busy  life. 
Each  hour  brought  new  duties,  and  sometimes 
grave  decisions.  Just  now  they  are  discussing  with 
interest  a  question  about  which  there  is  evidently 
a  disagreement. 

"No,  I  can  not  consent."  It  is  the  clear,  firm 
voice  of  Rachel  that  speaks. 


60  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"And  why  not?  What  possible  harm?"  And 
there  is  a  shade  of  annoyance  in  Margaret's  tones. 

They  are  discussing  a  dancing-school  which  has 
lately  been  opened,  in  which  Mrs.  Newcomb  has 
placed,  not  only  Richard  and  Marie, ,  but  little 
Therese  as  well,  and  she  is  urging  Rachel  to  do  the 
same  with  at  least  her  older  children. 

"Much  possible  harm  every  way,  as  I  see  it," 
rejoined  Rachel.  "But,  Margaret,  we  have  gone 
over  this  question,  in  some  shape,  so  many  times 
together,  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  reopen  it.  I 
accord  you  the  right  to  make  your  own  decisions, 
to  take  what  I  conceive  to  be  your  own  risks ;  for 
I  believe  them  to  be  risks.  You  must  allow  me 
the  same  freedom  of  choice."  Yet  Margaret  con- 
tinued :  "You  know  I  do  not  favor  more  than  you 
the  public  ball ;  but  for  your  children  and  mine,  and 
perhaps  other  neighbors'  children,  to  dance  together 
in  my  home  or  yours  is  as  innocent — as — as  to 
swing  together,"  she  concluded,  as  her  eye  fell 
upon  the  creaking  swing  just  outside. 

"If  children  went  no  further  than  their  parents 
intended,  Margaret,"  Rachel  calmly  answered, 
"your  argument  would  hold  good.  But  do  you  re- 
member Hazel  Run,  at  Lynton,  which  began  in  a 
clump  of  hazels  on  your  father's  farm,  but  later  on 
dashed  a  noisy  cataract  over  the  cliffs  in  Rocky 


CHARACTER  STUDY  61 

Hollow?  How  can  you  know  but  that,  when  your 
children  are  older,  and  the  world  bids  for  them,  as 
it  will,  remembering  that  dancing  and  card-playing 
bore  the  stamp  of  home  approval,  they  may  leave 
your  harmless,  marked-out,  home  restraints  as 
surely  as  Hazel  Run  left  its  quiet  beginnings  ?  Be- 
sides," she  continued,  "if  there  were  no  other  reason, 
the  Church — by  that  I  mean  every  orthodox 
Church — has  either  prohibited  such  amusements 
or  labeled  them  'questionable.'  " 

"The  Church!"  Margaret  interrupted  vehe- 
mently. "Such  restrictions  are  obsolete.  O  true 
daughter  of  Jacob  Ewing,"  she  continued,  half- 
whimsically,  "will  you  never  open  your  eyes  to  see 
that  even  Church  sentiment  changes  ?  Dr.  Herron's 
children  attend  this  questionable  school,  so  do 
Judge  Gibson's ;  and  how  could  the  Church  meet 
its  financial  obligations  without  the  aid  of  these?" 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  judge,"  responded  Margaret ; 
"but  I  can  reason  from  results.  Has  it  been  your 
observation  that  children  brought  up  under  the 
influence  of  such  lax,  easy-going  practices  develop 
that  principle  of  self-sacrifice  upon  which  the 
Church  of  the  past  has  rested?  Is  it  frocn  such 
homes  that  the  ranks  of  the  ministry  are  recruited ; 
that  missionaries,  ready  to  sacrifice  life  if  need  be, 
go  out?  True,  they  may  own  a  sort  of  Churchly 


62  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

allegiance,  and  may  even  contribute  to  its  support, 
realizing,  as  even  the  dullest  must,  that  that  civil- 
ization which  is  the  boast  of  our  century  is  the  off- 
spring of  Christian  teaching." 

Here  the  discussion  was  cut  short  by  the  return 
of  the  husbands.  These  had  lingered  to  discuss  the 
site  of  the  new  house.  The  stone  for  the  foundation 
was  already  on  the  ground,  and  as  soon  as  the  crops 
were  laid  by,  it  was  expected  that  the  building  would 
begin. 

As  they  lingered  they  had  also  talked  earnestly 
of  the  gathering  war-cloud,  now  about  bursting 
over  the  land.  Like  an  electric-shock,  but  a  few 
weeks  before,  pale  lips  had  passed  on  the  sentence, 
"Sumter  has  fallen!"  Even  as  these  two  old 
friends  talked,  there  came  the  awakening  strains  of 
drum  and  fife,  and  close  behind,  as  if  by  magic,  an 
army  was  springing  from  workshop  and  farm. 

The  very  first  blast  of  the  tocsin  had  been 
strangely  thrilling  to  John  Stevenson.  But  yester- 
day there  had  been  a  mammoth  "pole-raising."  He 
had  been  the  one  to  float  to  the  breeze  at  Burrton- 
ville  a  bright  new  flag;  and  not  one  in  the  crowd 
would  have  guessed  that  the  still,  quiet  man,  who 
so  steadily  adjusted  the  bit  of  cloth,  was  longing  to 
snatch  it  and  rush  to  the  front  of  the  battle. 

But  no  such  wild  thoughts  disturbed  the  mind 


CHARACTER  STUDY  63 

of  Burrtonville's  confessedly  most  astute  financier, 
William  Newcomb.  With  the  rapidity  and  cer- 
tainty of  a  carefully-trained  accountant,  his  mind 
at  once  grasped  the  financial  situation.  There 
would  be  armies  to  feed ;  for  this  the  Government 
must  buy  grain.  The  calling  off  of  men  from  their 
regular  pursuits  would  disturb  the  question  of  sup- 
plies. "This  conflict  that  is  just  on  will  last  longer 
than  these  poor  fellows  who  are  enlisting  for  sixty 
days  dream  of.  Now,"  he  continued  to  reason,  "if 
I  can  buy  up  grain  in  these  early  months,  and  hold 
it  for  the  enormous  demand  and  high  prices  that 
are  bound  to  come  later,  then — "  the  pleased,  far- 
away smile  told  how  gratifying  was  the  antici- 
pation. Through  such  different  glasses  did  these 
two  men,  walking  side  by  side,  view  what  appeared 
the  death-struggle  of  their  country ! 

But  to  carry  out  this  plan,  William  Newcomb 
knew  that  ready  money  was  a  necessity,  and,  as 
often  happens,  his  own  available  assets  were  already 
"tied  up"  in  other  investments.  "Now,  if  only  these 
beautiful  acres  were  mine,"  'he  thought,  covet- 
ously— a  suggestion  came !  Bending  over,  he  asked 
a  question  of  the  farmer,  a  question  which  brought 
surprise  and  a  measure  of  confusion,  but  to  which, 
after  a  moment  of  thought,  he  replied,  "Rachel 
and  I  will  talk  it  over."  Then,  turning,  they  en- 


64  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

tered  the  house,  interrupting,  as  we  have  seen,  the 
conversation  between  Rachel  and  Margaret.  Once 
there,  the  all-absorbing  "war  talk"  became  general, 
and  continued  till  the  departure  of  the  guests. 


"Mother,  I  want  to  join  that  dancing-class," 
was  the  announcement  Louise  startled  her  mother 
with  as  they  were  busy  about  the  evening  work. 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  dancing-class?" 
asked  her  mother,  in  order  to  gain  a  little  time. 

Then  followed  a  description  of  it  and  its  advan- 
tages, painted  in  the  most  glowing  colors.  But 
Louise  did  not  say  to  her  mother — perhaps  she  was 
not  herself  conscious  of  it — that  that  which  lent  a 
roseate  hue  to  the  whole  was,  thait  Richard  had 
paused  for  a  moment,  as  he  was  leaving  to  say: 
"Be  sure  to  coax  your  mother  to  let  you  go.  I 
want  you!" 

"And,  mother,  Mildred  Gibson  and  Will  Herron 
are  going;  and  you  know  they  are  in  my  Sunday- 
school  class." 

"And  my  daughter  wants  to  do  something  be- 
cause some  one  else  does  ?"  interpolated  her  mother. 

Then,  tenderly,  lovingly,  this  mother  went  over 
with  her  daughter  the  reasons  why  she  could  not 
grant  her  wish. 


CHARACTER  STUDY  65 

It  was  not  easy  for  Louise  to  yield.  Besides  a 
good,  strong,  healthy  will  of  her  own  that  struggled 
for  supremacy,  there  was  a  healthy  body  and  an 
exuberant  flow  of  spirits,  that  readily  responded 
to  what  promised  a  genuine  good  time.  But  it  was 
at  this  juncture  that  the  habit  of  obedience  bore  its 
fruit.  Louise  had  been  accustomed  to  yield  her 
will  and  trust  to  the  judgment  of  her  mother,  and 
although  it  was  hard,  from  her  angle  of  fifteen  years, 
yet  habit  prevailed. 


The  conversations  of  the  day  show  in  what  direc- 
tions the  young  people  of  the  two  families  are 
started.  Both  are  communicants  at  the  same  altar, 
yet  with  what  different  feelings  are  they  taught  to 
regard  the  obligations  imposed.  In  one,  the  re- 
strictions are  considered  irksome,  to  be  ignored  or 
condemned  as  foolish  and  exacting.  In  the  other 
family,  these  same  are  shown,  by  the  tender  voice 
of  the  mother  and  the  no  less  kindly  counsel  of  the 
father,  to  be  at  least  safe,  and  in  the  end  helpful. 
In  the  one,  self-gratification  has  been  restrained 
from  the  cradle,  and  the  happiness  -of  living  for 
others  enforced  by  precept  and  example.  In  the 
other,  a  want  was  but  to  be  made  known  to  be 
gratified,  if  possible. 
5 


66  RICHARD  NKWCOMB 

But  outside  of  the  parents  themselves,  there  was 
yet  another  molding  influence  at  work.  In  the 
Newcomb  home  there  was  an  elegant  library,  whose 
carved  bookcases  were  filled  with  handsomely- 
bound  books — really  a  good  selection.  There  were 
books  of  travel,  books  of  poetry,  some  cumbrous 
volumes  of  history ;  but  they  stood  up  so  prim  and 
regular,  with  altogether  such  a  well-kept  air,  one 
knew  at  once  that  they  were  unread,  unloved.  No ; 
the  Newcombs  were  not  a  reading  family;  that  is, 
there  was  no  regularity  in  their  habits — to  long  for 
a  certain  book ;  to  obtain  it  at  last ;  to  read  it  aloud, 
with  appreciative  listeners ;  to  come  across  a  choice 
passage  that  thrilled  one  with  its  beauty  and  truth, 
as  it  is  not  given  to  even  a  Klondike  nugget  to 
thrill.  Of  all  this  they  knew  nothing.  Perhaps  be- 
cause all  this  implies  a  certain  amount  of  leisure, 
an  unknown  factor  in  the  city  home;  for  business 
was  coming  to  claim  the  father,  even  of  evenings, 
and  society  the  mother.  Indeed,  with  the  years, 
each  child  came  to  have  its  "engagements,"  so  that 
few  evenings  found  the  family  at  home. 

But  they  did  read!  Ask  Marie,  ask  Therese. 
Stored  away  in  their  drawers,  taken  to  bed  even 
with  them,  were  novels  of  the  most  sensational 
type,  which  the  girls  devoured  rather  than  read. 
Alas  for  the  blindness !  Alas  for  the  hurry !  The 


CHARACTER  STUDY  67 

pity  of  it  is,  that  at  this  formative  period  in  these 
young  lives  there  had  not  been  one,  with  the  in- 
clination and  leisure,  whose  happiness  it  might  have 
been  to  lead  these  ready  minds  out  into  the  great 
fields  of  thought,  where,  feeding,  they  would  have 
been  broadened,  deepened,  and  filled  with  an  appre- 
ciation of  higher  things,  and  bound  them,  with 
silken  fetters,  to  the  Church  of  God!  What  sorrow 
might  have  been  averted ! 

In  that  other  home  with  which  we  have  to  do, 
the  reader  already  knows  that,  humble  as  it  was, 
books  and  good  "periodicals  had,  from  its  begin- 
ning, been  a  strong  factor.  The  impress  of  these 
has  already  been  noted  in  the  parents.  It  is  be- 
coming quite  as  visible  in  the  children ;  for,  uncon- 
sciously to  one's  self,  what  one  reads  molds  one's 
habits  of  thought;  and  habits  of  thought  are  the 
springs  of  action.  L/ouise,  with  fier  gladsome, 
buoyant  nature,  would  not  otherwise  have  so  readily 
yielded  in  the  matter  of  attendance  at  the  dancing- 
school.  It  may  be  her  mother  was  human  enough 
to  ascribe  this  yielding  wholly  to  her  own  wise 
counsel ;  but  back  of  this,  in  the  heart  of  this  young 
girl,  was  a  pride  in,  a  love  for,  and  a  loyalty  to  the 
Church,  which  even  the  mother  did  not  suspect. 
Some  way,  somehow,  she  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  "miracle"  of  the  centuries;  that  is,  the  re- 


68  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

sistless  growth  and  spread  of  God's  kingdom  among 
men,  of  which  that  which  they  called  the  "Church" 
was  the  visible  sign.  In  this  "plan"  there  had  been 
the  "setting  up"  and  setting  down  of  kingdoms, 
the  transcendently  conspicuous  work  of  a  few  indi- 
viduals; but  even  a  casual  reader  could  note  that 
the  secret  of  power  of  this  great  whole  had  always 
lain  in  the  devotion  and  steadiness  of  purpose  of 
the  individual,  the  unit;  and,  strange  truth,  exem- 
plified over  and  over  by  all  'history,  the  individual, 
the  unit,  had  been  able  to  accomplish  the  most  for 
itself  and  for  the  world,  as  it  had  placed  itself  in 
harmony  with  this  "plan."  "Therefore,"  our  young 
friend  reasoned,  though  she  was  scarcely  conscious 
of  the  reasoning,  "it  were  'better'  to  be  in  har- 
mony. It  were  rbetter  not/  perhaps  after  all,  to 
insist  one  one's  own  desires." 

***** 
Night  had  fallen  upon  the  sunshiny  anniversary. 
The  children  of  the  farmhouse,  worn  out  by  a  day 
of  unusual  pleasure,  slept  soundly.  But  the  parents 
lingered  to  talk  over  the  events  of  the  day,  a  sur- 
prising one,  of  which  Rachel  now  learned,  had  been 
the  confidential  request  of  William  Newcomb  that, 
inasmuch  as  he  desired  a  sum  of  money  to  invest 
in  the  immediate  purchase  of  grain,  John  would 
become  surety  for  the  same.  The  idea  was  not 


CHARACTER  STUDY  69 

relished  by  either;  for  anything  savoring  of  debt 
or  obligation  was  peculiarly  distasteful.  But  there 
was  absolutely  no  risk ;  Newcomb's  far-seeing  busi- 
ness instinct  had  become  almost  a  proverb. 

The  conversations  of  the  day  had  indicated  a 
growing  estrangement — an  estrangement  the  farm- 
folk  did  not  relish.  Might  not  this  be  an  oppor- 
tunity to  indicate  the  real  friendliness  of  their  hearts, 
and  thus  possibly  bridge  over  the  growing  chasm  ? 
"Yes,  it  had  better  be  done,"  was  the  decision. 

This  matter  settled,  the  conversation  drifted 
back  to  the  threatened  war,  and  its  probable  length 
was  discussed.  Suddenly  there  flashed  upon  Rachel 
a  realization  of  all  the  heartache  involved.  With  her 
mental  vision  she  saw  the  sad  farewells  of  husbands 
and  wives,  the  going  out  of  brave  young  boys,  who 
had  been  the  joy  and  pride  of  home.  Was  it  strange 
that  she  experienced  a  wave  of  thankfulness  that 
her  eldest  was  so  young?  Arising,  she  went  softly 
to  the  bed  where  Asbury  lay  sleeping,  and  gently 
kissed  his  forehead.  "No,  my  treasures  are  not  de- 
manded," she  said,  and  was  glad. 

O,  blind  Rachel !  Was  there  nothing  to  whisper 
aught  to  you  of  the  battle  waging  in  the  faithful 
heart  so  near  you?  Can  you  not  read  the  agony 
written  in  the  eyes  that  just  now  are  so  anxiously 
watching  you  ? 


VI 

The  War — An  Accident — Louise  and 
Richard 

THE  next  few  months  slipped  by  with  startling 
rapidity.  On  the  farm,  heavy  crops  had  been 
harvested,  and  lumber  was  ready  for  the  new 
house,  which  John  seemed  strangely  loth  to  begin. 
At  the  mill,  William's  prophecy  had  been  fulfilled. 
The  business  had  certainly  quadrupled.  Instead  of 
the  war-cloud  blowing  over,  as  many  had  hoped,  it 
gathered  in  intensity.  And  in  these  first  few 
months  the  Nation  seemed  in  the  throes  of  (Jissolu- 
tion,  as  news  of  continued  defeats  flew  northward. 
This  be'came  the  absorbing  topic — all  else  dropped 
into  insignificance. 

One  evening  in  the  early  autumn,  John  Steven- 
son sat  reading  the  Daily,  which  in  these  troub- 
lous times  had  suddenly  grown  to  be  a  household 
necessity.  Suddenly  he'  threw  it  aside,  with  the 
remark,  "Another  call  for  volunteers."  Something 
in  his  voice  caught  his  wife's  ear.  In  a  moment 
she  was  by  his  side,  her  arms  about  him.  "You — 
you — surely  you  do  n't  think — "  but  she  could  not 

70 


THE  WAR  71 

finish,  only  to  gasp,  "O !  the  children !"  Ge'ntly 
he  told  of  his  long  struggle,  how  duty  seemed  urg- 
ing, nay,  driving  him  to  the  front.  "And  what  a 
coward!  How  the  children,  and  even  yourself, 
would  have  a  right  to  blush  for  me  if  I  failed  my 
country  in  this  supreme  hour  of  nee'd!"  As  he 
talked,  his  face  lighted  and  glowed  with  the  thrill 
of  patriotism,  and,  with  breaking  heart  and  ready 
intuition,  the  wife  perceived  how  useless  would  be 
a  prote'st  against  his  heart  convictions. 

For  answer,  she  silently  bowed  her  head  upon 
his  breast.  With  a  lightning-like  flash  she  saw  the 
weary  years  ahead.  No  more  sweet  counsel  to- 
gether. Upon  her  alone  must  rest  that  burden. 
Somehow,  she  must  take  upon  herself  the  manage- 
ment of  the  farm.  And  then — O,  dreadful  thought ! 
— so  many  had  marched  off  never  to  come  back. 
They  had  died  in  battle',  on  the  wearisome  march, 
or  of  wasting  disease  in  hospitals. 

Could  she  stand  it  ?  Ought  she1  to  ?  Ah !  but 
there  was  the  bleeding  Nation,  and  its  strong, 
great-hearted  President,  calling  for  brave  men ! 

Other  women's  hearts  were  breaking ;  why  not 
hers  ?  She  lifted  her  head,  and  her  husband  knew 
her  heart  had  said,  "Aye." 

A  few  days  later,  at  the  supper-table,  William 
Newcomb  announced,  "John  has  enliste'd."  He  and 


72  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

his  wife  talked  much  of  the  unwisdom  of  the  act; 
but  in  the  heart  of  each  there  was  a  respect  for  the 
brave  soldier  which  neither  cared  to  acknowledge 
to  the  other.  "His  regiment  is  about  full,  and  he 
will  go  to  the  front  in  another  week,"  Newcomb 
added,  as  he  left  the  room. 

How  readily  we  adjust  ourselves  to  the  inevi- 
table !  A  week  ago  the  sun  had  shone  so  brightly ! 
Rachel  remembered,  in  a  dazed  kind  of  way,  that 
she  had  been  so  happy  when  Asbury  had  come 
home  from  the  academy  but  a  little  while  ago,  and 
announced  his  promotion  as  a  reward  for  some 
extra  study  he  had  been  doing.  Could  such  a  small 
thing  ever  make  her  happy  again  ?  With  hardly  a 
sigh,  the  plans  for  the  new  house  were'  given  up. 
So  does  a  greater  grief  absorb  our  lesser  ones. 

The  last  few  days  were  given  to  the  hurried 
preparation  of  some  articles  necessary  for  the  com- 
fort of  the  dear  one.  At  first,  the  grief  of  the  chil- 
dren knew  no  bounds.  Asbury,  proud  in  his 
seventeen  years,  begged  to  accompany  his  father ; 
but  no — the  mother  was  firm — that  sacrifice  had 
not  been  demanded  of  her. 

Louise  went  to  bed,  dreaming  of  hospitals, 
bandages,  and  of  broken  limbs.  Could  the  mother 
have  looked  into  that  warm,  impulsive  heart,  she 


THE  WAR  73 

would  have  been  surprised  at  the  ambitious  plans 
brooding  there.  As  for  Ruth,  it  was  touching  to 
watch  her,  as  she  silently  followed  her  father  about 
the  house,  watching  an  opportunity  to  slip  her 
hand  in  his,  or  cuddle  in  his  lap.  They  had  always 
been  peculiarly  knit  together,  and  for  them  the 
parting  promised  to  be  hard. 

On  the  day  following  his  enlistment,  he  was  sur- 
prised, while  at  the  barn,  to  hear  childish  sobs 
above  him.  With  a  swift,  silent  step,  he  reached 
the  mow.  There,  prone  on  the  hay,  lay  little'  Ruth. 
"Father,  O  father!  we  will  die  without  you!"  he 
heard  her  sob.  In  a  moment  he  had  gathered  her 
to  his  arms,  and  tenderly,  as  though  she'  had  been 
older,  he  explained  the  grave  needs  of  the  hour; 
then  added,  "And  my  little  girl  may  help  by  pray- 
ing each  day  and  night  for  my  return."  After  this 
there'  were  no  tears;  but  the  faithful  little  body 
followed  him  like  a  shadow. 

The  last  week  slipped  by — surely,  never  had  a 
week  hurried  so.  The  last  morning  dawned,  clear, 
bright,  beautiful.  As  Rachel  mechanically  opened 
the  blinds,  she  noticed  as  much,  and  that  the  early 
frosts  were  scattering  the  leaves  from  the  great 
elm.  Already  there'  seemed  a  pathos  in  the  tossing 
of  the  bare  limbs.  "It  is  as  well,"  she  murmured 


74  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

to  herself.  "Let  them  toss  and  moan,  if  they  will, 
as  winter's  blasts  fall  upon  them.  'T  is  but  a  type 
of  life's  emptiness." 

John  was  to  leave  before  noon ;  and  before  the 
home  adieus  were  said,  he  went  mechanically  to  the 
barn,  ostensibly  for  a  last  word  with  the  hired  man, 
but  in  reality  to  take  leave  of  the  animals  that 
for  so  long  had  been  a  part  of  his  life.  Black  Nell, 
that  had  faithfully  helped  to  draw  the  great  wagon 
westward  so  long  ago,  was  no  more ;  but  Princess, 
her  daughter  and  counterpart,  stood  contentedly  in 
her  stall,  and  gave  a  low  whinny  of  recognition, 
and  rubbed  her  nose  against  the  arm  of  her  master. 
But  time  was  passing,  and  voices  on  the  outside 
'were  calling.  John  paused  a  moment  at  the  stall  of 
"Superb,"  a  great  stallion,  noted  alike  for  his 
strength  and  at  times  for  his  viciousness.  Why 
does  he  chafe  so?  What  is  that  about  his  hoof? 
Ah !  in  his  pawing  he  has  loosed  a  board ;  and  see ! 
a  nail  has  been  thrust  in  the  hoof.  To  se'e  anything 
wrong,  with  John  Stevenson  was  but  to  try  to 
remedy  it;  so,  with  a  "Stand  still,  there,  Superb," 
he  entered  the  stall  and  stooped  to  adjust — 

It  was  well  that  the  man  who  was  to  help  on  the 
farm  opened  the  bar-door  just  then;  for  a  sharp 
moan  went  up,  then  all  was  still.  A  few  minutes 
later,  Rachel  saw  them  bearing  a  still  burden 


AN  ACCIDENT  75 

straight  to  her  door.  Five  minutes  later,  Black 
Princess  was  galloping  rapidly  to  Burrtonville  for 
medical  help.  John  Stevenson  was  seriously  in- 
jured, if  not  killed.  As  he  lay  back  upon  the  pil- 
lows, it  looked  the  latter,  Outside  the  door  we're 
grouped  the  frightened  children.  Asbury  had 
flown  to  Burrtonville  for  the  doctor.  Louise  had 
grasped  little  Rose,  and,  not  knowing  what  she 
did,  began  humming  a  nursery  ditty.  Poor  Rachel, 
utterly  stunned,  with  a  heart  that  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  become  lead,  walked  first  to  the  bed, 
then  to  the  door  to  look  anxiously  down  the  high- 
way towards  Burrtonville. 

The  jaunty  blue  soldier's  cap  lay  on  the  floor, 
where  it  had  dropped  from  the  improvised  litter. ' 
Mechanically  she  picked  it  up,  and  there  rushed  in 
upon  her  a  realization  of  what  was  to  have  been 
and  what  was. 

But  it  was  left  for  Ruth — timid,  yet  practical 
Ruth — to  go  softly  to  the  bed,  rub  the  cold  hands 
and  bathe  the  brow,  till  a  low  moan  told  that  he 
yet  lived. 

The  physician  gravely  shook  his  head.  One 
cruel  stroke  of  the  great  hoofs  had  broken  a  limb, 
while  another  had  injured  the  spine,  it  could  not  be 
told  how  seriously.  For  a  week  the  father  lay  be- 
tween life  and  death,  and  while  he  so  lay,  the 


76  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

company  that  was  to  have  been  his  marched  away. 
Two  days  before  their  departure,  Rachel  went  to 
William  Newcomb,  and,  handing  him  a  roll  of  bills, 
said :  "If  my  husband  lives,  he  can  not  go.  To  do 
so  was  his  heart's  desire.  Take  this  money — we 
had  saved  it  for  a  new  house — get  two  'substi- 
tutes' in  his  place.  The  country  needs  them,  and 
the  log-house  will  do."  Brave,  patriotic  Rachel! 
There  were  thousands  like  her.  Can  we  of  a 
younger  generation  ever  appreciate  the  sacrifices 
of  those  terrible  days? 


It  was  found  that  John  Stevenson  would  not 
die.  He  would  live  but  for  a  time,  at  best,  an 
invalid. 

While  he  is  being  nursed  back  to  health,  we 
must  again  look  in  upon  the  young  people,  and 
another  visit  to  the  Newcomb  home  becomes 
necessary. 

It  has  been  se'en  that  the  older  ones  of  each 
family  were  in  the  academy.  But  teachers  and 
parents  found  it  hard  to  hold  the  young  mind  down 
to  study.  Outside  was  the  roll  of  drums,  and 
"news  from  the  front"  was  the  all-absorbing  topic. 
In  all  this,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  boys  became 
intensely  interested.  In  every  village,  town,  and 


AN  ACCIDENT  77 

hamlet,  "companies"  were  formed,  a  captain 
chosen,  and  the  "common"  became  a  drill-ground, 
where  youthful  patriotism  huzzaed  itself  hoarse. 
Burrtonville  had  its  company,  and,  after  its 
marches  and  countermarches,  usually,  its  young 
captain  would  be  led  to  a  goods-box,  from  which, 
with  youthful  fervor,  he  would  orate  upon  the 
day's  struggle.  This  captain  was  Richard  New- 
comb,  who  seemed  born  for  leadership.  Hearing 
the  huzza,  even  the  busy  William  Newcomb  would 
smile ;  for  his  "dream"  lay  in  his  handsome,  boyish- 
faced  Richard.  The  late  investments  of  this  man 
of  business  had  surprised  even  himself  by  their 
quick  returns ;  but  he  found  fortune  a  stern  mis- 
tress. He  must  make  no  reservations  if  he  would 
serve  her.  When  his  soul  rebelled  at  the  bonds, 
he  would  comfort  himself,  saying :  "The  strain  will 
soon  be  over.  I  shall  have  amassed  a  great  for- 
tune, and  then — ."  His  wife,  always  a  doting 
mother,  as  she  perceived  Richard  and  Marie  slip- 
ping into  manhood  and  womanhood,  determined 
that  they  should  have  every  advantage'  which  the 
money  and  social  prestige,  which  were  theirs,  could 
procure. 

The  young  people  of  Burrtonville  had  learned 
to  love  the  great,  roomy  parlor  and  spacious  din- 
ing-room beyond;  for  in  them  charming  evenings 


78  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

had  been  spent — now  in  the  "harmless"  parlor 
dance,  now  at  the  low  whist-tables.  Both  Richard 
and  Marie  had  become  skillful  players  at  the  last. 
When  the  proper  hour  would  arrive,  Margaret, 
the  gracious  hostess,  and  Marie,  daintily  gowned, 
would  serve  the  refreshments. 

The  Newcombs'  grounds  boasted  many  trellises 
of  the  choicest  grapes,  and,  under  the'  supervision 
of  the  mistress  herself,  each  year,  casks  of  home- 
made wines  were  stored  in  the  cellar,  which  were' 
drawn  upon  for  these  same  refreshments;  and 
usually  it  was  Marie's  own  hand  that  poured  the 
rich  liquid.  Yes,  what  with  music,  dancing,  cards, 
and  wine,  the'  evenings  did  pass  gayly. 

It  is  true,  some  parents  shook  their  heads ;  but 
then,  "the  Newcombs  were  so  eminently  respect- 
able, and  besides,  Church  members."  Moreover, 
as  a  society  leader,  Mrs.  Newcomb  was  often 
heard  to  express  her  strong  disapproval  of  public 
dances ;  only  could  they  be  allowed  in  the  parlors 
of  home  or  friends.  When  one  suggested  that 
"cards"  belonged  by  right  to  the  saloon  or  brothel, 
her  reply  was,  "Boys  had  better  learn  at  home, 
so  there  would  be  no  temptation  to  assail  them 
when  they  were'  out  in  the  world."  "As  for  wine," 
here  her  lip  would  curl  contemptuously,  "as  if  one 
could  not  control  their  appetite!  It  would  be  a 


LOUISE  AND  RICHARD  79 

weak  person  indeed  who  could  not  sip  a  glass  of 
home-made  wine  without  be'coming  a  drunkard." 
Yet  even  now,  could  she  have  caught  the  whisper, 
it  was  beginning  to  be  said  outside  the  home,  that 
the  handsome  son  of  this  handsome  woman,  who 
felt  so  sure'  of  the  correctness  of  her  views,  was 
already  becoming  too  fond  of  his  cups. 

Margaret  Newcomb  prided  herself  upon  the 
fact  that  she  was  "progressive."  It  was  a  favorite 
saying  of  hers  that  "we  ought  not  to  try  to  hold 
our  young  people  down  to  the  notions  of  half  a 
century  ago;  and  as  for  the  Church! — well,  if 
the1  Church  would  hold  its  young  people,  let  it 
modernize." 

It  was  strange  that  among  the  molding  influ- 
ences that  shaped  this  family,  the  contents  of  the 
handsomely-carved  bookcase  did  not  exert  a 
greater  influence.  Strange,  too,  that  among  all 
the  elegantly-bound  books  there  was  such  an  utter 
absence  of  any  specifically  religious.  No,  not 
strange,  if  we  recall  the  elder  Richard  Allen  and 
his  seed-sowing,  and  the  truth  that  the  harvest  is 
greater  than  the  sowing. 

But  among  the'  young  people  of  Burrtonville 
there  was  one  family  whose  young  people  had  no 
part  in  these  social  evenings  at  the  Newcomb's. 
We  say  "young  people  of  Burrtonville,"  for  though 


8o  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

the  Stevenson  farm  lay  two-  mile's  distant,  yet  so 
closely  were  the  inmates  associated  with  the 
Church  and  school — indeed,  with  all  the  interests 
of  the  town — that  for  all  practical  purposes  they 
were  a  part  of  it. 

From  the  anniversary-day,  when  Rachel 
Stevenson  had  so  clearly  expressed  her  convic- 
tions, it  had  been  understood  that,  while  at  other 
times  the  Stevenson  boys  and  girls  were  glad  to 
be  at  "Aunt  Margaret's,"  on  these  social  evenings 
they  would  be  absent.  We  should  not  be  a  true 
chronicler  if  we  were  to  say  that  this  entailed  no 
hardship  upon  these  wide-awake,  fun-loving  young 
people,  or  that  there  never  were  any  question- 
ings, nor  hints  at  rebellion;  but  we  can  say,  that 
when  a  victory  has  been  once  gained  (as  had  been), 
subsequent  ones  become  easier;  for  a  successful 
life,  after  all,  is  made'  up  of  many  small  victories, 
rather  than  one  or  two  great  ones.  But  upon 
Richard,  accustomed  to  have  his  own  way,  this 
decision  fell  the  hardest;  for  from  the  days  when 
he  and  Louise  had  played  at  housekeeping  be- 
neath the  elms,  she  had  been  his  comrade,  his  boy- 
ish ideal,  nor  had  dawning  manhood  changed  this, 
and  to  be  thus  peremptorily  deprived  of  his  old- 
time  playmate  in  hfs  social  life  was  unendurable. 


IX>UISE  AND  RICHARD  81 

But  Mrs.  Stevenson  remained  firm;  so,  while  the 
Newcombs  danced  in  their  lovely  parlors,  making 
the  evenings  gay  with  laughter  and  song,  Louise, 
Asbury,  and  Ruth  took  turns  in  reading  aloud  to 
their  invalid  father,  or  studied  the  lessons  for  the 

morrow. 
6 


VII 
Academy  Life,  and  Home  Evenings 

THESE  were  months  of  anxiety  and  care  to 
the  Stevensons. 

Let  us  go  back  to  the  day  when  the  father 
was  carried  in  so  cruelly  injured.  The'  broken  limb 
easily  healed;  but  excruciating  pain  revealed  the 
fact  that  a  serious  injury  to  the  back  had  occurred, 
and  it  was  months  before  it  was  known  whether 
he'  would  again  walk.  Twice  came  the  sowing, 
and  twice  the  reaping,  before  he  crept  forth  upon 
his  staff,  in  appearance  an  old  man. 

During  the  first  few  months  of  his  invalidism, 
Rachel  suddenly  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
seve'ral  problems  which,  unlike  previous  ones  that 
had  arisen,  could  not  be  settled  by  mutual  coun- 
sel. One  was  the  question  of  the  farm  manage- 
ment; another,  involved  in  the  first,  was,  should 
Asbury  and  Louise  remain  in  the1  academy  ?  Each 
was  strong  and  well-built.  Would  it  not  be  wise 
to  have  their  help  at  home  during  this  emergency  ? 
While  others  slept,  she,  wide  awake,  viewed  these 
questions  on  each  side. 

82 


ACADEMY  LIFE,  AND  HOME  EVENINGS     83 

"No,"  she  finally  said,  "they  must  remain  in 
school  at  all  hazards."  So  the  trusty  farm-hand, 
who  was  to  have  staid  during  her  husband's  ab- 
sence, was  retained.  The  younger  boys  were  now 
sturdy  lads,  and  these,  with  Ruth,  became  now, 
more  than  ever,  their  mother's  helpers,  remain- 
ing at  home  during  the  first  winter,  reserving, 
though,  a  part  of  the  time  for  study  and  recitation, 
either  to  Asbury  or  Louise.  This  was  a  necessity ; 
for  the  invalid  required  the  constant  care  of  his 
wife. 

Outside  the  school  hours,  Asbury  and  Louise 
lent  willing  hands;  but  they  were  each  near  the 
final  year  of  the  course,  and  their  studies  required 
much  time.  Besides,  it  was  her  father's  wish  that 
Louise  should  devote  as  much  time  as  was  pos- 
sible to  her  music.  Her  voice  was  a  rich  soprano. 
Each  month  appeared  to  add  clearness,  strength, 
and  volume  to  it — so  said  her  teachers ;  but  there 
was  about  it  an  indescribable  touch  of  pathos  which 
touched  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard  her  sing. 

Richard  Newcomb,  it  may  be  said,  sang  too — 
a  deep,  musical  tenor — and  sometimes,  as  these 
well-chorded  voices  rang  out  together,  as  they  now 
often  did,  from  the  plain  little  sitting-room,  a 
curious  fear  smote  Rachel's  he'art ;  but  she  brushed 
it  aside.  "They  are  but  children,  and  have  played 


84  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

together  from  the  cradle."  Still,  unconsciously, 
she  found  herself  paraphrasing  Rebekah's  old  la- 
ment, "What  sorrow  to  my  soul,  if  my  daughter 
take  a  husband  of  the  sons  of  Heth!" 

So,  with  work  and  with  not  a  few  anxieties, 
the  days  of  John  Stevenson's  invalidism  went  by. 

"Rachel,"  said  he  one  day,  while  he  was  yet 
in  bed,  "the  time  for  that  note  to  be  paid,  for 
which  I  became  security,  has  passed.  Has  New- 
comb  mentioned  the  matter  lately?" 

"No ;  but  I  must  go  in  to  Burrtonville  this  after- 
noon, and  will  see  him." 

An  hour  later  she  was  interviewing  the  rich 
owner  of  not  only  the  most  prosperous  mills  in  all 
Western  Illinois,  but  the  largest  dealer  in  real 
estate  as  well. 

Now,  while  the  investment  for  which  Newcomb 
had  borrowed  the  money  had  proven  successful, 
still  there  had  come  so  many  wonderful  openings, 
the  sum  had  been  reinvested  again  and  again.  Just 
now  it  was  out ;  but  next  week  it  would  lie  in  the 
bank,  and  a  stroke  of  the  pen  would  cancel  the 
note.  This  much  he  explained  to  Rachel. 

"But  I  would  rather  it  was  paid,"  said  John, 
when  the  message  was  given  to  him.  "Go  to  him 
again,  and  say  I  can  not  allow  my  name  to  re- 
main longer." 


ACADEMY  LIFE,  AND  HOME  EVENINGS      85 

Surely,  his  long  confinement  was  telling  on  his 
nerves.  Still,  the  message  was  taken.  William 
Newcomb  bowed  in  acquiescence,  and  said,  "It 
shall  be  as  he  said."  And  both  John  and  Rachel 
felt  a  relief  that  it  was  "settled." 

During  the  last  winter  of  the  convales- 
cence, an  event  occurred  which,  on  account  of 
its  bearing  upon  the  two  families,  must  not  fail 
of  being  chronicled.  A  great  religious  awaken- 
ing occurred.  Beginning  in  the  church  where  our 
friends  worshiped,  it  spre'ad  throughout  the  city. 
Its  effects  were  particulary  noticeable  in  the  acad- 
emy, nearly  the  entire  school  being  converted. 

With  the  Stevetisons,  each  child  had  in  its  in- 
fancy been  presented  for  baptism ;  and  later  on, 
after  careful  instructions  in  Church  doctrines  and 
usages,  had  been  received  into  full  membership  in 
accordance'  with  the  plan  of  their  Church.  To 
neither  of  these  children  had  it  occurred  that  any- 
thing further  was  necessary.  Yet,  again  and  again, 
came  the  reiterated  message  from  the  lips  of  the 
earnest  preacher,  "Ye  must  be  born  again,"  fol- 
lowed by  the  strange  altar  scenes,  where,  amid 
tears,  prayers,  and  songs,  a  face  would  suddenly 
brighten,  and  glowing  with  a  strange  light,  would 
exclaim,  "It  is  finished!" 

Louise    had    never    doubted    that    she    was    a 


86  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

child  of  God,  as  indeed  she  was,  yet  she  was  the 
first  among  her  brothers  and  sisters  to  feel  the  need 
of  something  which  as  yet  she  had  not  possessed ; 
and  in  her  own  impulsive  way,  without  a  word  to 
the  home-folks,  she  knelt  at  the  altar,  where  she 
poured  out  her  young  soul  in  prayer.  Presently  a 
strange  peace  stole  into  her  heart. '  She  remained 
yet  a  little  while  upon  her  knees,  then  arose,  with 
the  joy  born  of  the  consciousness  of  Christ's  Spirit 
within  illuminating  her  face. 

O,  young,  impulsive,  warm-hearted  Louise! 
Could  you  have  seen  the  weary  years  and  heart- 
aches ahead,  the  heavy  trials  that  await  you,  the 
work  He  has  for  you,  you  might  perhaps  have 
lingered  even  longer,  to  pray  that  through  it  all 
this  new-found  joy  and  peace  might  always  be 
yours ! 

It  was  a  matter  of  comment  between  the  father 
and  mother  during  these  meetings  that  Asbury 
took  little  or  no  interest  in  them.  For  awhile  he 
had  been  regular  in  his  attendance,  but  finally  con- 
trived to  stay  away  upon  one  pretext  or  another. 
One  night,  after  the  family  had  come  home  from 
church  and  had  fallen  asleep,  Rachel  was  awakened 
by  a  noise'  in  the  little  bedroom  where  Asbury 
slept,  and  a  voice  calling,  "Father,  mother,  come 
here!"  Each  hastened  with  a  fear  of  sudden  ill- 


ACADEMY  L,IFE,  AND  HOME  EVENINGS     87 

ness.  What  was  their  surprise  to  find  Asbury  up 
and  dressed,  and  in  tears,  and  to  be  met  with  the 
exclamation,  "I  must  have  this  question  of  'salva- 
tion' settled  now." 

With  tender  and  tactful  inquiries,  both  parents 
sought  to  find  the  difficulty.  Born,  baptized,  and 
brought  up  in  the  Church,  taking  a  delight  in  her 
worship,  well-read  in  her  literature,  grounded  in 
her  doctrines, — still  there  was  a  hungering  in  the 
soul,  a  burden  on  the  heart.  The  hortatory  style  of 
the  preacher  had  aroused  a  conviction  of  personal 
unworthiness.  For  weeks  the  burden  had  grown 
heavier,  till  now  it  was  unbearable.  Fortunately, 
from  earliest  childhood,  religious  talks  between 
children  and  parents  had  been  common;  so  there 
was  none  of  that  shrinking  timidity  which  at  such 
times  frequently  drives  the  seeker  to  some  other 
than  the  family.  Grasping  the  situation  at  once, 
the  father  got  his  Bible,  and  both  he  and  the 
mother  began  to  point  out  the  Scriptures,  making 
plain  the  wondrous  plan  of  salvation,  showing, 
however  exemplary  the  life,  there  yet  re'mained 
necessary  the  individual  surrender  of  self,  and  the 
acceptance  of  a  personal  Savior. 

Suddenly  there  came  an  illumination  of  the 
mind.  The  wondrous  simplicity  of  it  all  dawned 
upon  the  struggling  youth,  and  while  his  mother's 


88  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

voice  was  yet  petitioning  the  Throne,  he  exclaimed 
"I  see  it  all ! 

'The  great  transaction's  done; 

I  am  the  Lord's  and  He  is  mine.' " 

And  now  it  was  John  and  Rachel  Stevenson's 
turn  to  be  surprised.  Could  this  be  their  quiet 
and  reticent  boy,  who,  with  beaming  face,  was 
shouting  aloud,  praising  God,  till  the  brown  old 
rafters  fairly  shook  with  the  echo? 

Old-fashioned  ?  Yes,  perhaps ;  but  it  was  that 
blessed  "old-fashion"  that,  throughout  the  ages, 
has  made  the  Church  strong  and  stalwart;  that 
has  implanted  and  nourishe'd  such  clear  conviction 
of  right  and  wrong;  that,  at  a  word,  armies  have 
sprung  into  existence  to  do  battle  for  the  right! 
The  same  "old-fashion"  that  has  sent  pioneer 
preachers  and  teachers  to  the  western  wilds  till, 
to-day,  they  blossom  as  the  rose,  has  sent  out 
missionaries  till,  from  heathen  lands  to-day,  is 
wafted  news  of  a  nation  being  born  in  a  day ;  and, 
quite  as  necessary  as  any  of  those'  "greater"  rje- 
sults,  has  planted  in  every  Church,  no  matter  how 
humble,  those  who  cheerfully  become  the  "bur- 
den-bearers," and  in  their  daily  lives  exemplify  the 
Master's  power  to  save. 

During  the  remaining  weeks  of  the  meeting, 


ACADEMY  LIFE,  AND  HOME  EVENINGS      89 

none  were  more  faithful,  none  more  earnest,  and 
none  quite  so  successful  as  a  personal  worker  as 
the  erstwhile  timid  Asbury  Stevenson. 

Nor  were  the  Newcombs  left  unmoved.  With 
the  religious  feeling  as  intense  as  it  was,  it  could 
not  have  been  otherwise. 

Asbury's  conversion  was  hardly  less  a  source 
of  joy  to  the  Stevensons  than  was  Richard  New- 
comb's.  Indeed,  Rachel  seemed  to  rejoice  more 
than  his  mother,  who  said,  carelessly,  "Certainly, 
I  expected  that  the  children,  as  they  grew  older, 
would  identify  themselves  more  closely  with  the 
Church.  Religion  is  right  and  proper.  It  is  the 
'extremes'  that  are  disagreeable." 

A  word  about  Richard  Newcomb  and  his 
mother.  It  is  one  of  the  strange  things  which  we 
meet  with  in  life  that  a  mother  frequently  allows 
herself  to  become  absolutely  blinded  as  to  her 
children's  morals  and  habits.  Now  that  Richard 
was  nearing  manhood,  his  mother  did  not  appear 
to  realize  that  for  her  son  the  old  home-evenings 
had  lost  their  charm,  and  more  and  more,  upon 
one  pretext  and  another,  he  was  coming  to  spend 
these  evenings  outside  of  the  family  circle.  At 
first,  he  made  a  feint  of  going  to  his  father's  office ; 
but  there  was  little  to  interest  him  there,  as  he 
knew  nothing  of  the  business.  Besides,  in  the 


90  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

last  few  months,  his  father  was  growing  nervous 
and  irascible,  and  to  wear  a  haggard  and  worn 
look,  and  seemed  ready  to  find  fault,  upon  little 
or  no  provocation,  with  his  pleasure-loving  son. 
Yet  if  home  was  tiresome,  the  office  atmosphere 
unpleasant,  he  did  not  need  to  seek  far  for  hearty 
good-fellowship. 

Burrtonville  had  changed  much  since  the  old 
days  of  log-houses  and  stumpy  streets.  It  had  al- 
ready begun  to  ape  metropolitan  airs  in  many 
ways,  and  also  to  reproduce  city  vices  with  start- 
ling exactness. 

So,  in  the'  brilliantly-lighted  rooms,  where  the 
clink  of  glasses  was  often  heard,  together  with 
the  coarse  laugh  and  jest,  and  the  steady  click 
of  the  billiard  balls,  Richard,  at  first,  occasionally 
dropped  in  for  an  "evening."  The  "occasions" 
became  frequent,  till,  at  the  date  of  which  we 
speak,  he  was  scarcely  ever  at  home;  and  worse, 
Marie,  whose  rooms  adjoined  his,  knew  that  at 
times  he  came  home  staggering,  maudlin.  Was 
this  all  unknown  to  the  mother?  No  one  knew. 
If  so,  pride  kept  her  silent;  but  it  is  more  likely 
that  faith  in  the  devil's  choicest  saying,  "Let  him 
alone ;  he  must  sow  his  wild  oats,"  formed  a  large 
part  of  her  creed  at  this  juncture. 

Yet,   if   his    mother    kept    sealed    lips,   Dame 


ACADEMY  L,IFE,  AND  HOME  EVENINGS     91 

Rumor  did  not,  and  it  became  current  among  his 
acquaintances  that  "Young  Newcomb  was  going 
to  the  bad."  Bits  of  this  rumor  could  not  fail  to 
reach  the  Stevenson  home,  where  it  appeared  to 
carry  more  dismay  than  to  his  own  home. 

Louise,  with  the  old,  imperious  stamp  of  her 
foot,  declared  it  all  false,  a  shameless  specimen 
of  gossip.  She  had  known  Richard  always,  and 
knew  the  kindliness  and  honor  of  his  soul,  the1 
loftiness  of  his  ideals.  That  he  should  fall  be- 
low these,  degrade  himself  by  becoming  a  common 
drunkard — her  loyal  heart  spurned  the  thought! 
So  Rachel  carried  a  double  burden:  Real  sorrow 
over  the  misdeeds  of  one  who  had  grown  up  as 
her  own — misdeeds  in  which  she  was  compelled  to 
believe;  and  an  awakening  misgiving  conce'rning 
that  one  of  hers  who  was  so  ready  to  defend  the 
sinner.  Therefore  it  was  with  extreme  satisfac- 
tion that  she  and  hers  beheld  the  zeal,  and  watched 
the  glow  and  fervor  of  Richard  Newcomb  in  these 
days  of  his  early  Christian  life.  They  had  yet  to 
learn,  as  do  we  all,  that  while  grace  does  much 
for  a  soul,  it  can  not  take  the  place  of  careful 
training  and  settled  Christian  principle1,  and  that 
the  modern  Christian  sower  finds,  as  did  the  one 
in  Galilee,  that  not  a  little  of  his  work  withers 
away  in  the  heat  of  every-day  temptation. 


VIII 

Asbury's  Decision — The  Newcombs 

EIGHTEEN  hundred  and  sixty-five!  What 
memories  are  yet  evoked  in  the  hearts  of 
many  by  the  bare  mention  of  this  date  ! 

During  all  these  years,  since  John  Stevenson's 
company  had  marched  away  without  him,  the 
great,  bloody  conflict  had  been  waging.  The  Na- 
tion had  lived  at  fever-heat.  The  ordinary  affairs 
of  life  were  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  "news 
from  the  front."  Slowly,  though,  within  the  last 
few  months,  the  war-cloud  had  been-  lifting. 
Rumors  of  peace  were  afloat.  Finally  came  the 
news  of  Lee's  surrender,  and  soon  the  steady 
tramp  of  thousands  of  returning  brave  men  shook 
the  streets  of  cities  and  aroused  country  hamlets. 

How  the  lusty  cheers  went  up  from  many 
throats  as  groups  of  bronzed  veterans  came  march- 
ing down  the  streets !  Usually  the  fleet  telegraph 
had  announced  their  coming;  then  a  proud  and 
happy  citizenship  welcomed  them  with  the  wildest 
enthusiasm.  Alas!  that  in  the  midst  of  this  joy, 
grief  had  a  right  to  intrude !  Amid  the  joyous, 

92 


ASBURY'S  DECISION — THE  NEWCOMBS      93 

welcoming  crowd  there  were  many  black-robed 
figures,  who  wept  because  not  all  who  had  so 
bravely  marched  away  were  among  the  return- 
ing ones. 

At  such  times,  Rachel  Stevenson's  heart  ached 
for  her  husband ;  for  the  pallor  of  his  face  and  the 
tightening  of  the  lips  told  how  great  the  trial  of 
invalidism  instead  of  active  service  had  been. 

We  have  seen  that  the  Stevensons  were  pa- 
triotic; therefore  they  were  intensely  interested 
in  the  close  of  the  war.  Still,  this  interest  could 
not  wholly  overshadow  the  events  which  were  oc- 
curring in  their  own  family — events  of  great  mo- 
ment, both  for  the  present,  and  for  the'  years  to 
come.  In  June,  Asbury  was  to  be  graduated  from 
the  academy.  It  had  been  hard,  during  the  closing 
years,  to  hold  him  down  to  study.  Once,  when 
a  specially  urgent  "call"  for  troops  was  made,  he' 
insisted  upon  going.  To  this  his  mother  emphatic- 
ally said:  "No;  you  are  too  young  for  efficient 
service ;"  adding,  "There  are  as  truly  great  battle- 
fields ahead.  God  would  have  you  prepare'  your- 
self, that  he  may  use  you  where  he  will." 

As  his  graduation  drew  near,  he  and  his  parents 
were,  each  in  their  way,  giving  much  thought  to 
his  immediate1  future.  It  soon  became  known  to 
the  "home-folks"  that  Asbury  was  carrying  a 


94  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"burden"  which  he  had  not  yet  shared  with  the 
family. 

Like  many  another  mother,  Mrs.  Stevenson  had 
found  that  there  is  an  age  when  it  is  not  wise  to 
follow  a  boy  or  question  him  too  closely.  Be- 
sides, this  son  of  hers  had  inherited  from  his  father 
a  trait  which  made  him  more  difficult  of  access; 
that  is,  concerning  that  which  he  felt  most,  he 
said  least. 

Therefore,  she  felt  that  at  this  juncture  he 
would  be  stronger  if  some  questions  were  settled 
without  word  of  hers. 

It  was  a  source  of  comfortable  thought  to 
know  that  the  "college  fund,"  dating  back  to  the 
plan  of  the  gift  of  the  cows,  when  each  child  in  the 
family  came  to  the  age  of  ten  years,  had  now 
grown  until  there  was  on  deposit  sufficient  to  give 
each  two  or  three  years  at  a  university.  That 
much  assured,  somehow  the  rest  would  come. 

But  to  return  to  Asbury.  One  day,  about  a 
month  before  his  graduation,  he  surprised  his 
mother  by  coming  home  during  school-hours. 

"Why,  how  does  it  happen  that  you  are  home 
at  this  hour?  Are  you  sick?"  was  the  natural 
query.  "No;"  and  vouchsafing  no  further  reply, 
he  passed  into  his  room  remaining  there  till  called 
for  the  evening  meal.  Later,  at  evening  prayer, 


ASBURY'S  DECISION — THE  NEWCOMBS      95 

after  a  bit  of  natural  hesitation,  he  said,  "Now  we 
are  all  together,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  it  is  settled." 
"What  is  settled?"  came  in  chorus  from  his 
brothers  and  sisters.  But  his  mother,  who  had 
watched  his  struggle  with  an  anxiety  all  unknown 
to  him,  arose,  and,  putting  her  arms  about  him, 
said,  "That  you  are  to  preach  the  gospel,  is  it 
not  ?"  For  answer  came  a  tightening  of  the  hand- 
clasp, tears  fell  from  his  eyes,  and  his  head  bowed 
assent. 

Yes ;  from  the  memorable  night  of  his  conver- 
sion, he  had  carried  about  with  him,  as  he  told 
them,  the  constantly-increasing  burden,  "Woe  is 
me  if  I  preach  not  the  gospel."  Now  he  had  rolled 
it  off  in  unquestioning  obedience. 

How  quickly  affairs  adjust  themselves  to  suit 
new  conditions!  Within  a  week  after  Asbury's 
decision,  it  had  been  determined  that,  after  a  sum- 
mer spent  in  helping  on  the  farm,  he  should  en- 
roll as  a  student  at  a  university  in  another  State. 
This  university,  in  addition  to  its  excellent  theolog- 
ical course,  had  a  comprehensive  and  thorough 
course,  open  alike  to  young  women  as  well  as 
young  men.  After  much  consultation,  it  was 
further  decided  that  Louise  should  forego  her  last 
year  in  the  academy  and  accompany  him,  an  ar- 
rangement in  which  the  young  lady  cheerfully 


96  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

acquiesced,  but  hardly  with  the  enthusiasm  her 
parents  would  have  been  glad  to  have  seen  dis- 
played. 

***** 

This  being  an  interwoven  history,  we  must  now 
return  to  Richard  Newcomb,  with  whom  we  have 
not  had  to  do  since  his  conversion,  three  years 
ago. 

During  all  this  time  his  life  had  been  exem- 
plary. But  who  can  estimate'  the  force  of  habit, 
or  thwart  the  power  of  molding  influences  upon 
childhood  ?  One  of  the  greatest  hindrances  which 
he  and  his  sisters  encountered  in  their  efforts  to 
live  Christian  lives  was  a  lack  (unconscious  per- 
haps, yet  none  the  less  truly  a  lack)  of  reverence 
for  the  Church  and  respect  for  its  teachings.  This 
was  wholly  the  result  of  their  bringing  up.  Dur- 
ing their  entire1  life  they  heard  criticisms  concern- 
ing it,  and  had  heard  its  requirements  scoffed  at 
and  seen  them  disregarded.  Besides,  though  not 
one  member  of  this  proud  and  cultured  family 
would  have  been  willing  to  acknowledge  it,  they 
were  really  all  wofully  ignorant  in  regard  to  this 
one  matter.  The  glorious  past  of  the  Church,  with 
its  splendid  line  of  achievements,  was  utterly  un- 
known. To  them,  the  organization  at  Burrton- 
ville  was  the  Church.  If  one  of  the  good  deacons 


ASBURY'S  DECISION — THE  NEWCOMBS      97 

deviated  from  the  strait  and  narrow  path,  or  if 
his  wife  were  shrewish  and  took  an  undue  inter- 
est in  her  neighbors'  affairs,  this  at  once  became 
an  argument  against  the  Church.  If  at  time's 
certain  of  the  members  displayed  more  zeal  than 
culture,  these  aesthetic  young  people  smiled,  in  a 
patronizing  way,  and  gave  "the  Church"  a  dis- 
credit mark. 

With  the'  well-read  young  people  of  the  farm 
it  was  otherwise.  They  knew  that,  back  of  these, 
was  a  long  line  of  illustrious  scholars,  poets,  and 
statesmen — indeed,  almost  the  entire  scholarship 
of  the  world — who  had  been  proud  to  give  their 
allegiance  to  this  same  Church. 

As  for  its  current  history,  the  Newcombs  knew 
less  of  it  than  of  the  most  trivial  political  affair 
in  their  own  land,  or  indeed  of  the  nations  of  the 
earth.  It  could  not  be1  otherwise;  for  the  books 
upon  the  library  shelves  covered  almost  every  field 
except  that  of  religion.  The  magazines,  which 
monthly  loaded  their  reading-table,  were'  rich  in 
serials,  portraying  life,  whether  among  the  great 
or  lowly,  picturing  its  loves  and  hates  with  skill- 
ful touch;  but  of  the  Church  they  were  silent, 
save  as,  perhaps,  some  one  of  its  philanthropies 
touched  the  world. 

Looking  back  to  the  weeks  when  these  young 
7 


98  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

\ 

people  started,  in  a  deeper  sense,  to  live  a  Chris- 
tian life,  it  seems  strange  that  it  did  not  occur 
to  either  this  father  or  mother  that  their  children 
needed  now,  particularly  at  this  crucial  time,  a 
helpful  Christian  literature.  Mr.  Newcomb  could 
not  have  imagined  himself  living  without  his  favor- 
ite political  paper;  Mrs.  Newcomb  had  her  own 
specialities  in  the  newspaper  and  magazine  world. 
But  that  there  was  needed,  as  a  factor  in  the  family 
life,  a  paper  devoted  to  the  Church,  giving  its 
current  events  and  discussing  its  questions  of  in- 
terest, was  not  thought  of  or  conside'red. 

There  was  yet  another  hindrance  that  made  a 
Christian  life  hard,  and  that  was  the  habits  of 
these  young  people.  Their  fe'et  were  nimble  in 
the  dance,  and  their  hands  were  skillful  with  cards. 
They  loved  the  taste  of  their  mother's  rich  wines, 
and  had  been  taught  to  believe  this  right.  It  is 
little  wonder  that,  erelong,  Marie  and  Therese, 
though  retaining  a  nominal  membership,  relapsed 
into  the  old  way. 

What  of  Richard,  "handsome  Richard,"  as  his 
mother  fondly  called  him?  Is  he  able  to  stand 
where  others  fell?  To  answer  this  question  will 
be  one  of  the  provinces  of  the  following  pages  of 
this  "home  story."  We  have  seen  that  since  his 
conversion  his  life  has  been  exemplary.  His  was 


ASBURY'S  DECISION — THE  NEWCOMBS      99 

really  a  noble  nature,  and  his  heart  was  full  of 
lofty  ideals.  Nature  had,  indeed,  richly  endowed 
him.  He  was  a  "born  comrade;"  for  added  to 
his  fine  physique  was  a  hearty,  genial  manner  that 
drew  all  hearts  to  him. 

He  and  Asbury  Stevenson  were  classmates, 
and  it  was  plain,  even  to  Rachel,  that  where  As- 
bury plodded,  Richard  easily  soared,  so  graciously 
did  knowledge  unfold  herself  to  him.  We  have 
seen  him,  during  his  boyhood,  as  the  boyish  orator, 
firing  the  hearts  of  his  "military  company."  We 
see  him  now,  in  the  closing  years  of  his  academic 
life,  the  easily-recognized  leader  in  all  debate.  Nor 
were  there  any  better  informed  than  he  upon  the 
great  questions  that  were  just  then  threatening 
to  rend  the  nation  in  twain. 

One  of  the  great  events  of  his  boyhood  had 
been  a  debate,  held  in  his  native  town,  between 
the  two  great  sons  of  Illinois,  Abraham  Lincoln 
and  Stephen  A.  Douglas.  He  was  captivated  by 
the  sturdy  common  sense,  keen  wit,  and  irresistible 
logic  of  Lincoln.  He  followed  the  speaker's  every 
movement,  and  edged  his  way,  through  the  great, 
huzzaing  crowd,  quite  to  the  speaker's  side;  and 
no  gray  head  watched  with  more  interest  the  flash 
of  the  kindling  eye,  or  noted  more  accurately  the 
deep  conviction  which  lighted  up  the  plain,  rugged 


ioo  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

features.     From  that  hour  the  political  questions 
of  the  day  were  of  supreme  interest  to  him. 

Little  wonder  that,  as  his  academic  life  drew 
to  its  close,  many  predicted  a  brilliant  future  for 
this  favorite.  Remembering  the  time,  not  so  long- 
in  the  past,  when  this  same  loved  student  had  been 
anything  but  studious,  and  when  rumor  had  been 
rife  with  his  name,  many  said,  "What  a  reforma- 
tion!" Such  did  not  know,  neither  did  keen-eyed 
Rachel  suspect,  that,  stronger  than  the  attractive, 
beckoning  finger  of  future  usefulness  and  fame, 
stronger  even  than  his  love  to  God,  was  the  grow- 
ing and  deepening  love  between  himself  and 
Louise,  and  that  this  was  the  slender,  silken  cord 
which  was  drawing  him  away  from  the  evil  into  a 
sincere  desire  for  the  good. 


IX 

A  Love  Affair,  and  a  Mother's  View  of  It 

DIMLY  the  old  brick  walls  of  Burrtonville 
Academy  loomed  up  that  June  evening  in 
the  dusky  shadow  of  the  moon.  The  trees  in  the 
campus  were  laden  with  their  heavie'st  foliage,  and 
the  drooping  branches  cast  shadowy  outlines  upon 
the  winding  walks,  over  which  little  groups  of 
students,  mostly  in  twos,  sauntered  in  the  moon- 
light. It  was  Commencement-week,  and  the  even- 
ing of  the  college  social.  The  walk  led  up  quite 
near  to  the  building,  where  it  divided,  leading  up 
to  the  two  entrances,  le'aving  a  triangular  bit  of 
ground,  filled  with  the  choicest  flowers.  Just  now 
the  air  was  heavy  with  the  rich  wealth  and  fra- 
grance of  masses  of  June  roses.  Among  the 
shadows,  on  the  great  stone  steps,  sat  a  young 
girl  and  her  companion.  In  her  lap  lay  a  cluster 
of  roses  she  had  gathered  in  passing,  the  petals 
of  which  she  aimlessly  scattered,  as  the  low,  earnest 
tone's  of  her  companion  fell  in  sweet  cadence  upon 
her  ears. 


102  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

It  is  the  old,  yet  ever  new,  sweet  story,  which 
shall  never  lose  its  freshness  till  the  last  son  and 
daughter  of  Adam  have  quitted  this  earth. 

"Listen,  Louise — ."  Ah!  it  is  Richard,  elo- 
quent, love-stirred  Richard,  who  is  speaking. 

"You  must  hear  me,  for  this  may  be  our  last 
opportunity  together ;  for  I  am  sure  your  going  to 
college  is  but  a  plan  to  separate  us.  I  know  too 
well  I  am  not  a  favorite  in  your  home.  How  can 
I  be,  when  our  family  notions  of  life'  are  so  differ- 
ent !"  And  then,  with  all  the  hot,  impassioned  fer- 
vor of  youth,  he  pleaded  his  love,  and  for  the  sweet 
promise  that  should  indissolubly  link  their  lives 
together. 

Little1  need,  Richard,  had  you  but  known  it,  for 
all  this  eloquence.  The  treasure  you  seek  is  yours. 
The  link  you  ask  for  has  been  forging  through  the 
long,  happy  hours  of  childhood.  The  opening  years 
of  young  manhood  and  young  womanhood  have 
strengthened  it.  Indeed,  who  shall  say  that  in  the 
great  councils  of  your  creation  and  hers  it  was  not 
said,  "What  God  hath  joined  together,  let  not  man 
put  asunder?" 

As  his  words  died  away,  a  little  hand  crept 
shyly  into  his.  The  June  breezes  murmure'd  softly 
around  the  stern  old  walls.  The  flowers,  but  a 
step  away,  lightly  touched  their  heads  together  as 


AFFAIR  103 

if  in  knowledge  of  the  sweet  secret,  but  the  young 
pair  were  silent;  for  vain  are  words  to  voice  the 
tumult  of  a  soul. 

They  could  linger  but  a  little  while ;  for  during 
the  evening  Louise  was  to  sing.  Poor  Louise! 
How  could  she  face  the  audience?  Surely  her 
precious  secret  must  be  read  by  every  one,  and  it 
was  in  a  strange,  bewildering  maze  of  happiness 
with  which,  presently,  she  joined  with  Richard  in 
the  long  promenade  of  the  hall.  And  Richard, 
happy,  audacious  Richard;  more  than  once  he 
looked  down  into  the  bright  face  at  his  side  and 
boldly  whispered,  "My  darling !" 

Once  on  this  promenade  they  passed  Rachel, 
who  sat  chatting  with  some  friends.  Something  in 
the  air  of  the  couple  suddenly  arrested  her  atten- 
tion, and  sent  a  momentary  pang  to  her  heart. 
"They  are  but  children,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Louise  will  forget  all  this  in  the  coming  year  at 
school."  Presently  the  rich  voice  of  her  daughter 
rang  out  in  song.  The  selection  was  a  light,  joy- 
ous one1,  and  surely  never  did  lark  or  linnet,  on 
swaying  bough,  warble  so  joyously,  nor  did  ever 
an  upturned,  feathered  throat  anywhere  so  surely 
sing  of  joy  and  peace. 

Rachel  listened  in  wonder,  as  did  the  audience'; 
but  no  voice  whispered  to  her  soul  of  the  new  ex- 


104  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

perience  of  her  daughter.  How  strange  that  we 
are  so  slow  to  read  the  hearts  of  our  own ! 

This  mother  had  watched  this  young  girl  grow 
from  her  own  arms — first,  into  the  toddling,  willful, 
vivacious  child;  afterwards,  into  the  loving  light- 
ener  of  her  own  care's ;  and  later,  into  the  peculiar 
sunshine  of  their  home. 

She  had  grieved,  at  times,  over  the  imperious 
will,  and  had  rejoiced  when  she  had  deemed  it  laid 
low  at  the  Cross.  Yes,  she  knew  her  so  well,  every 
trend  of  her  mind ;  yet  had  one  hinted  to  her  that 
this  child  might  carry  a  woman's  heart  in  her 
breast,  she  would  have  resented  the  idea.  Still 
more  would  she  have  been  appalled  could  she  have 
guessed  that  this  same  heart  had  awakened  and 
responded  to  that  strong,  strange  emotion  whose 
coming  is  but  nature's  signal  that  the  gates  of 
childhood  are  forever  closed. 

As  for  Richard— "Boyish  Richard!"  she  had 
said  to  herself  more  than  once  lately,  as  his  fond- 
ness for  Louise's  company  became  more  marked — • 
had  it  not  been  his  delight  all  his  life  to  rummage 
her  cupboards  in  search  of  cookies  and  toothsome 
sweets  ?  Had  not  he  and  Louise  led  in  mad  pranks 
all  over  the  old  farm  ?  No ;  it  was  but  the  veriest 
nonsense  to  think  of  him  as  her  daughter's  lover. 
Yet,  following  uncomfortably  close  upon  this  con- 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  105 

elusion,  came  the  remembrance  of  the  lover-like 
looks  which  had  startled  her,  and  against  her  will 
she  found  herself,  surrounded  though  she  was  by 
music,  flowers,  and  a  gay  crowd,  calming  her 
newly-aroused  fears  with  arguments  why  Richard 
Newcomb  should  not  be  her  daughter's  lover. 

Not  only  the  half-hushed  whispers  of  his  own 
personal  shortcomings  swept  in  upon  her,  but  the 
worldly,  irreligious  life  of  the  family.  It  had  been 
to  her  a  source  of  real  regret  that  the  old  sweet 
ties  of  friendship  had  been  gradually  yet  so  surely 
loosened,  that  now  each  family  had  come  to  be 
well  content  to  "gang  their  ain  gait."  That 
which  one  family  held  most  dear  and  sacred,  the 
other  considered  not  at  all  worth  the  while  of 
people  of  culture.  Indeed,  it  had  often  seemed 
of  late  that  Mrs.  Newcomb  took  special  pains  to 
parade  her  own  easy  notions  of  home-life  in  con- 
tradistinction to  the  sterner  code  of  the  farm. 

"There  can  be  but  one  end  for  all  this,"  Rachel 
had  more  than  once  said  to  herself,  "and  that  is, 
complete  shipwreck  of  the  Christian  faith,  a 
complete  ingulfment  in  the  vortex  of  a  purely 
worldly  life.  No,  it  must  not  be!"  and  her  lips 
closed;  and  they  who  knew  her  best  would  have 
known  an  appeal  from  that  decision  would  have 
been  useless. 


io6  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

During  the  homeward  drive,  John  Stevenson 
and  his  wife  talked  of  the  music  of  Louise's  song, 
of  the  heavy,  growing  crops  on  either  side  of  the 
highway ;  but  never  once  did  Rachel  think  it  worth 
while  to  mention  her  newborn  fears.  Besides,  if 
there  were  a  growing  affection  between  the  two, 
happily  she  had  decided  how  it  could  be  best  man- 
aged. That  very  evening  she  would  await 
Louise's  coming;  would  calmly,  lovingly  point  out 
the  possible  dangers,  and  insist  upon  a  halt  in  the 
boy-and-girl  friendship.  "How  glad  I  am  I 
thought  of  the  danger  in  time!"  was  her  self-satis- 
fied comment,  as,  with  book  in  hand,  she  sat  alone 
to  await  Louise's  coming. 

Meanwhile  the  two  lovers  were  loitering  on  the 
homeward  drive.  We  shall  not  obtrude.  Let  the 
soft  sheen  of  that  same  old  moon  which  has  lent 
its  witchery  to  so  many  such  scenes,  and  the 
wafted  perfume  of  June  roses  and  leafy  verdure, 
be  the  only  setting,  to  this  old  yet  ever  new  story 
which  ardent  youth  pours  into  willing  ears. 

Lofty  plans  are  made  for  the  future ;  for  hides 
there  in  all  the  world  an  obstacle  which  does  not 
vanish  on  the  approach  of  that  old  magician, 
Love?  So  says  all  the  fairy  lore  of  the  past;  so 
believes  the  youthful  pair  who  so  slowly  ride  on. 
It  is  well  that  the  illusion  is  so  complete;  for  in 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  i&j 

the  coming  years  one  weary  heart,  at  least,  will 
pause  in  its  tireless  work  for  others'  weal,  and  in 
remembrance  whisper,  "Surely  heaven  can  be  no 
sweeter."  But  there  is  a  patient  watcher,  whose 
strained  ear  just  now  catches  the  rumble  of  wheels, 
then  the  sound  of  a  low  "good-night"  at  the  door, 
and  Louise  has  entered  the  room. 

As  her  feet  crossed  the  doorway,  involuntarily 
the  watcher's  lips  quivered  slightly,  then  tightened. 
She  was  firm. 

"Why,  mother,  are  you  still  up?"  the  musical 
voice  called  out. 

How  beautiful  she  was  that  moment !  Even  her 
mother,  burdened  though  her  he'art  was  just  now 
with  a  perhaps  unpleasant  duty  to  perform,  could 
not  but  let  her  eyes  dwell  on  the  dainty  picture. 
The  soft  folds  of  her  simple  evening  dress  fell 
about  her.  In  stature  she  was  undersized;  but 
her  form  was  perfect,  and  had  a  willowy  supple- 
ness that  lent  a  peculiar  charm.  But  it  was  in  the 
mobile  earnestness  of  the  face,  which  portrayed 
every  passing  emotion,  and  in  the  liquid  softness 
of  the  eyes,  wherein  lay  the  greatest  charm. 

As  she  stood,  looking  down  at  her  mother,  she 
caught  the  wistful,  tender  look  which,  unawares, 
had  stolen  into  the  upturned,  questioning  face. 
Ah !  how  many  times  she  had  been  cuddled  in  those 


io8  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

faithful  arms !  How  many  times  that  work- 
seamed  hand  had  smoothed  away  her  troubles! 
Why  should  she  not  now  tell  of  her  new  happiness  ? 
Dropping  suddenly  upon  her  knees,  in  her  old  im- 
pulsive, childish  fashion,  she  laid  the  soft  white 
hand  in  that  of  her  mother's,  exclaiming,  brokenly, 
"O  mother!  Richard — I  am  so  happy!"  and  the 
brown  head  nestled  in  her  mother's  lap. 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  at  her  feet,  Rachel 
could  not  have  been  more  surprised.  A  half  hour 
ago  she  had  sat  waiting  kindly  yet  firmly  to  point 
out  a  future  possible,  undesirable  result,  and  now 
that  dreaded  result  was  a  fact. 

What  should  she  say?  Should  she  call  up  her 
motherly  prerogative  of  reproof  and  forbid  the 
affair  entirely?  Ah,  she  knew  the  strong,  unyield- 
ing will  too  well  for  that !  Swifter  than  did  ever 
a  modern  telegraph  ring  out  an  alarm,  the  cry 
for  help  went  straight  to  the  Throne,  and  with 
the  cry  was  borne  in  the  message,  "Take  time." 
Yes,  she  must  have  time — time  to  think  it  all  over, 
to  use  all  the  tactful  resources  of  her  nature. 

For  answer,  she  kissed  the  sweet,  young  face, 
saying,  "Another  time  we  will  talk  it  over;  just 
now  I  can  not  take  in  your  evident  meaning. 
Surely,  't  is  but  a  boy  and  girl  fancy." 

"Mother !" 


A  LOVF,  AFFAIR  109 

The  young  girl,  catching  the  unfriendly  tone, 
had  arise'n.  In  that  one  word,  Rachel,  in  weari- 
ness of  heart,  recognized  that  the  child  was  for- 
ever gone,  and  a  woman,  with  whom  she  must 
battle,  was  in  her  stead. 

"You  must  sleep  now,"  she  said ;  "another  time 
we  will  talk  it  over,"  and  putting  her  arms  gently 
about  her,  led  her  to  the  little  plain  room  she 
shared  with  Ruth. 

It  was  long  before  either  slept.  With  Louise, 
her  mind  dwelt  first  on  her  new-found  happiness, 
and  again  on  her  mother's  strange  reception  of 
it.  "She  thinks  us  children!  O  mother!"  and 
the  very  tone  of  the  thought  implied  a  constancy 
that  boded  ill  for  Rachel's  plans. 

And  Rachel?  For  hours  she  tossed  upon  the 
bed,  and  feverishly  asked  herself  the  question, 
"How  can  this  foolish  boy-and-girl  affair  be 
stopped?"  for  tha,t  it  must  be  stopped  was  as 
clear  to  her  as  noonday.  But  how?  And  until 
the  early  morning  hour  she  still  asked  herself, 
"How?" 

The  next  day  bade  fair  to  be  an  uneventful 
one.  The  mother  still  felt  herself  unequal  to  the 
task  of  discussing  the  matter.  She  had  not  even 
yet  told  her  husband.  Louise,  in  the  shyness  of 
young  girlhood,  avoided  all  mention  of  it.  The 


no  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

shadows  of  the  afternoon  had  already  begun  to 
slant  when  Rose,  still  the  baby  pet,  who  liked 
nothing  better  than  a  rojnp  with  Richard,  came 
in  and  triumphantly  announced  that  "Richard  had 
come,  and  was  talking  to  father." 

The  hot  crimson  blood  surged  up  to  the  very 
roots  of  Louise's  hair ;  for,  on  the  evening  before, 
Richard  had  told  her  that  before  another  day 
closed,  he  meant  to  stand  before  her  family  as 
her  accepted  lover.  "It  will  be  so  much  better," 
he'  had  said,  "to  have  the  matter  clearly  under- 
stood." The  plans  for  the  future  of  the  young 
pair  were  yet  misty.  Richard  had  already,  in  a 
desultory  manner,  begun  the  study  of  law,  his 
chosen  profession;  but  lately  he  had  thought 
much  of  a  position  with  his  father  in  the  mill,  and 
a  cozy  home  for  his  young  bride.  But  even  if 
the  future  was  not  settled,  in  his  frank  way  he 
was  determined  his  new  relationship  to  Louise 
should  be  known. 

Hearing  he  had  come,  Louise  sought  refuge  in 
her  own  little  room,  and  Rachel  nerved  herself; 
for  she  felt  that  a  crisis  was  at  hand.  The  door 
opened,  admitting  her  husband  and  Richard.  On 
the  first  face  was  written  perplexed  surprise,  with 
not  a  little  alarm.  On  the  other,  O  what  a  meta- 
morphosis! Strong,  manly  resolution  had  sue- 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  in 

ceeded  the  boyish  smile.  It  dawned  on  Rachel 
that  the  "fancy"  had  taken  deep  root. 

"Mother," — her  husband  always  spoke  thus 
when  a  matter  of  importance  was  being  dis- 
cussed— "can  you  guess  what  Richard  has  asked 
of  us?" 

Rachel  cast  a  swift,  searching,  almost  pitying 
glance  upon  the  eager,  bright  face. 

There  was  no  fear  of  her  in  Richard's  heart. 
All  his  life  she  had  been  to  him  a  kind  of  second 
mother.  He  had  gone  to  her  with  a  want  as  read- 
ily as  to  his  own.  True,  he  had  said  to  Louise 
that,  on  account  of  different  family  views  of  life, 
he  was  not  a  favorite;  yet  love  had  made  him 
bold.  Surely  there  could  be  no  re'al  opposition 
from  her  who  had  known  him  all  his  life. 

So  in  an  instant  he  had  gone  to  her  side. 
"You  know  I  have  always  loved  Louise.  I 
thought  it  only  right  to  tell  you  that  we  have 
pledged  our  mutual  love,  and  we'  shall  be  happy 
with  your  blessing  and  good  will."  An  oppressive 
silence  followed,  broken  at  length  by  Rachel, 
whose  voice  sounded  strange  and  husky. 

"You  know,  Richard,  that  we  would  willingly 
make  any  sacrifice  for  Louise''s  good ;  but  I  am 
surprised  that  you  should  seriously  ask  this. 
You  must  kpow  that  you  are  each  far  too  young." 


ii2  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Richard  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "Your 
education  is  incomplete;  so  is  hers.  You  have 
made  no  plans  for  the  future.  It  would  be'  a  posi- 
tive unkindness  to  you  both  for  us  to  consent  to 
what  you  ask.  In  a  few  years  you  will  each  laugh 
at  this  passing  folly." 

A  flood  of  anger  rose  to  the  young  man's  face 
at  these  words. 

Just  then  he  caught  the  flutter  of  a  dress  in 
the  room  beyond.  In  a  moment  he  was  by 
Louise's  side.  "Come,  my  darling,  we  must  settle 
this  together,"  and  impetuously  he  led  her  into  the 
room  where  sat  her  parents.  What  was  it  that 
caused  her  to  seek  her  father's  side?  Mayhap,  in 
that  swift  instant,  she  read  a  growing  heart- 
tetiderness.  Certain  it  is,  from  her  mother  she 
expected  no  pity. 

"Passing  fancy!"  It  was  Richard  who  spoke. 
"I  tell  you  I  verily  believe  this  love  was  born  in 
me.  I  could  give  up  life  easier  than  I  could  give 
up  this.  As  for  further  education,  Louise's  love 
will  be  an  inspiration.  As  for  life's  plans,  we  will 
be  willing  to  wait,  if  we  must;  but  such  men  as 
have  had  a  loving  heart  by  their  side  are  those 
who  have  made  the  greate'st  success  of  life." 

How  well  he  pleaded  his  cause,  Rachel  could 
but  think ! 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  113 

"Can  I  ever  be  happy — can  my  daughter  ever 
be  happy  if  she  takes  a  husband  from  a  careless, 
worldly  family?  Aye,  if  reports  be  true,  a  hus- 
band who  has  already  learned  to  love  sin,  the 
first  flush  of  love's  young  dream  over,  would  he 
not  grow  weary  of  her  sterner  morals?  Ah! 
might  not  these  morals  tone  themselves  down  to 
the  lower  plane?"  No,  this  alliance  must  never 
be.  She  must  speak  plainly. 

"Richard,  your  notions  of  life  are  different  from 
ours,  as  are  your  ideals.  What  to  us  is  the  most 
sacred,  to  you  is  a  subject  for  jest.  When  Louise 
is  older,  she  will  see  this  for  herself.  Until  then, 
I  must  think  for  her." 

This  young  man,  in  all  his  life,  had  known  but 
little  opposition,  and  now  to  have  this  supreme 
wish  disregarded  was  unbearable;  besides,  Ra- 
chel's last  words  had  touched  him  as  the  others 
had  not. 

"And  for  such  a  cause  you  would  part  us? 
And  yet  I  am  to  admire  such  religion!  Louise," 
and  he  turned  to  the  young  girl,  "have  you  not 
a  word  to  say?"  For  answer,  without  looking 
at  her  mother,  Louise  arose  and  walked  to  her 
lover's  side,  and  calmly  put  her  hand  in  his,  turn- 
ing such  a  look  of  unutterable  love  upon  him 
that  a  wave  of  happiness  swallowed  up  his  anger. 
8 


ii4  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Rachel  bowed  her  head,  while  a  very  storm 
swept  over  her.  Was  this  the  reward  of  mother- 
hood? Was  it  for  this  she  had  known  no  other 
law  than  that  of  uncomplaining  self-denial? 
And  she  knew  that  in  this  clash  of  wills  she  was 
right.  Thus  far  the  father  had  said  nothing, 
though  keenly  alive  to  every  phase  of  the  disputed 
question. 

Turning  to  his  daughter,  he  asked,  "How  old 
are  you,  Louise?" 

"Eighteen,  my  last  birthday." 

"Mother,"  said  he,  "time  has  been  cheating 
you;  Louise  is  no  longer  a  child.  Just  so  old 
were  you  when  you  left  your  father's  roof  to  build 
this  humble  home  with  me." 

His  wife  could  scarcely  believe  what  she  heard. 
Certainly  he  did  not  approve  what  to  her  seemed 
unendurable.  Louise  quickly  appealed,  "Father, 
we  are  willing  to  wait  if  you  think  best ;  but  help 
us  to  settle  this,  that  there  be  no  estrangement." 

"It  seems  to  me,  mother,"  added  he,  gently, 
"this  need  not  be  settled  definitely  now.  The 
young  people  have  said  they  were  willing  to  wait. 
Let  Louise  go  with  Asbury,  as  we  have  planned. 
Let  Richard  prepare  himself  for  life;  and  then — 
mother,  after  all,  this  is  something  each  heart 
must  settle  for  itself." 


A  LOVE  AFFAIR  115 

The'se  words  seemed  so  reasonable  that  even 
Rachel,  as  well  as  Louise  and  Richard,  felt  it  was 
best  to  acquiesce. 

It  was  hard  for  matters  to  drop  back  into  the 
old  groove ;  indeed,  Rachel  feared  more  than  once 
that  the  old  sweet  intercourse  between  herself  and 
Louise  was  forever  gone.  Richard,  with  lover- 
like  boldness,  did  not  make  his  visits  to  the  farm 
fewer,  but  insisted  on  coming  and  going  with  his 
old  freedom.  Meanwhile  there'  was  a  growing 
good  comradeship  between  Louise  and  her  father. 

But  to  be  fully  employed  has  been  a  cure  for 
many  a  heartache.  So  the  busy  days  at  the  farm- 
house served  to  tide  over  what  might  have  been 
an  embarrassing  time.  Asbury  was  doubly  busy; 
for  his  father  depended  largely  upon  him  and  the 
younger  boys  for  harvesting  the'  crops.  Besides, 
he  was  studying,  that  he  might  enter  an  advanced 
class  at  college.  Louise,  too,  had  her  full  share 
of  work.  So  the  summer  went  by. 

Richard  had  yet  another  experience  after 
his  first  interview  with  Louise's  parents,  the  de- 
tails of  which  he  could  not  unbosom  even  to 
Louise,  but  which  had  given  him  much  food  for 
private  reflection.  Straight  from  the  farm  he  had 
gone  to  his  father's  office.  He  had  gone  with 
a  vague  expectation  of  asking  for  a  partnership 


u6  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

in  the  busine'ss  or  for  a  position  with  a  salary. 
Entering  the  office,  to  which  he  had  grown  more 
and  more  a  stranger,  he  caught  sight  of  his  father 
at  a  desk.  How  weary  and  careworn  he  looked! 
How  hot  and  stifling  the  air! 

Somehow,  after  a  sight  of  the  bowed  figure, 
it  was  not  so  easy  to  begin.  Yet,  after  a  few  com- 
monplace remarks,  he  began  his  story.  Rachel 
Stevenson's  surprise  did  not  exceed  William 
Newcomb's.  But  yesterday  he  might  have  an- 
swered him  gruffly;  but  to-day,  with  that  hand- 
some, glowing  face'  before  him,  how  could  he? 
But  a  partnership?  No,  alas!  A  position  with 
a  salary?  No.  Father  and  son  talked  long  and 
earnestly  over  the  ledgers,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
conversation  the  father  went  back  to  his  accounts 
with  a  sigh.  The  son  passed  into  the  sunshine 
with  a  preoccupied  air.  When  he  next  saw  Louise, 
he  told  her  he  believed  his  father's  advice  best, 
and  that  he  would  enter  a  school  of  law  that  com- 
ing autumn. 


College — A  Study  of  Homes 

IAZILY    the    first    hint    of    September    breezes 
•  y  played  in  and  out  of  the  open  door  of  the 

farmhouse. 

/ 

Within  there  was  far  more  hurry  and  bustle 
than  was  common  to  this  well-ordered  home. 
Rapidly  the  mother  moved  about,  placing  now 
and  then  a  forgotten  package  in  one  or  the  other 
of  two  trunks  which  stood  almost  ready  for  the 
final  straps.  Outside,  by  the  gate,  champing  their 
bits  impatiently,  stood  Princess  and  Nell,  with  the 
familiar  light  wagon  which  was  to  bear  Asbury 
and  Louise  to  the  train,  which  in  turn  was  to 
whirl  them  to  that  world  of  new  experiences,  the 
university. 

As  their  father  drove  up,  an  involuntary  pain 
clutched  at  their  mother's  heart.  How  often  this 
selfsame  team  had  driven  up  in  their  childhood  to 
carry  them  to  church,  to  school !  And  now  they 
were  going, — was  it  forever? 

The  morning  prayer  had  been  full  of  pathos 
at  the  parting,  and  rich  in  pleading  for  Divine 
117 


n8  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

care.  Yet  this  mother  could  not  see  them  go 
without  a  personal  prayer  for  each.  So  alone  in 
the  little  chamber  she  knelt,  first  with  Asbury, 
and  then  with  Louise.  With  trembling  voice  she 
prayed,  first,  that  life  and  health  might  be  spared, 
and  that  each  should  make  the  most  of  the  oppor- 
tunity that  was  to  be  theirs  to  fit  themselve's  for 
wherever  duty  might  call. 

Then  followed  a  hurried  parting,  and  soon  the 
footsteps  died  down  the  gravel  walk,  and  the  two 
had  gone  out  from  the  home. 

How  strangely  silent  the  house  seemed  to 
Rachel,  who  was  left  alone!  While  their  going 
was  the  fruition  of  her  hopes,  still  it  was  borne 
in  upon  her,  as  she  listlessly  went  about  setting 
things  to  rights,  that  her  children,  as  children, 
were  gone  forever.  If  their  lives  were  spared, 
they  would  return  only  to  go  out  again,  and 
finally  to  take  their  places  among  life's  toilers. 

She  recalled  their  childhood,  their  peculiar  dis- 
positions, and  their  probable  future.  How  her 
he'art  thrilled  as  Asbury's  exemplary  life  arose! 
How  clear  his  brain!  how  studious  his  habits! 
how  unflinchingly  he  had  walked  in  the  path  of 
duty! 

And  Louise — she  had  been  a  good  daughter. 
Throughout  her  whole  life,  her  willing  hands  and 


COLLEGE — A  STUDY  OF  HOMES          119 

feet  had  lightened  her  own  cares,  while1  her 
cheery,  bright  ways  and  sweet  voice  had  made 
much  of  the  home-music.  As  for  Richard,  with 
her  husband  she  had  come  to  think  that  that  had 
best  be  left  to  time,  and  surely  time  would  settle 
it  aright.  He  had  left  the  week  before  for  a 
college  farther  east,  and  she  trusted  that  new 
faces  and  new  associations  would  break  the  tie. 

A  few  hours,  and  the  family  had  returned,  and 
the  routine  of  work  and  study  was  resumed. 
Ruth  and  Edward  were  each  in  the  academy,  while 
John,  a  sturdy  lad  of  thirteen,  with  little  Rose, 
attended  the  school  nearer  home.  So  the  house, 
much  of  the  time,  was  strangely  quiet  and  very 
unlike  the  old  patter  and  bustle  of  busy  feet. 

On  the  farm,  matters  were  assuming  a  more 
cheerful  financial  outlook.  The  rich  pastures  were 
flecked  with  cattle.  The'  dark  prairie-soil  har- 
vested good  crops.  Long  ago  good  barns  had 
been  built,  which  now,  in  the  autumn  fruitage, 
were  filled  to  overflowing. 

One  of  the  maxims  of  this  family  had  been  the 
Scriptural  injunction,  "Owe  no  man  anything." 
So  now,  as  the  father  had  gotten  much  stronger 
and  the  younger  boys  were  old  enough  to  relieve 
him  not  a  little,  the  Stevensons  rightfully  looked 
forward  to  a  greater  leisure;  for  the  farm,  while 


i2o  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

not  a  means  of  rapid  wealth,  is  surer  than  most 
others. 

Since  the  abandonment  of  the  new  house  at 
the  opening  of  the  war,  the  subject  had  not  again 
been  broached,  only  as  something  in  the  indefinite 
future'.  But  now  it  was  planned  that  when  As- 
bury  and  Louise  should  come  home  for  the  sum- 
mer vacation,  they  would  be  welcomed  to  the  new 
home — nothing  pretentious,  but  added  room,  which 
would  make  household  cares  less  burdensome. 

So  much  time  has  of  late  been  given  to  the 
farmhouse,  that  it  is  high  time  we  were  turning  to 
the  more  pretentious  home  of  the  Newcombs. 
We  have  already  seen  the  old  friendship  wavering 
under  the1  strain  of  growing  uncongenial  tastes. 
In  addition — but  perhaps  they  fancied  it — both 
John  and  Rachel  thought,  since  the  refusal  to  re- 
main longer  on  the  note  as  security,  Mr.  New- 
comb  had  been  strangely  reserved,  even  to  the 
point  of  avoidance.  Moreover,  Rachel's  known 
hostility  to  the  affair  between  Richard  and 
Louise  touched  Margaret  as  perhaps  nothing  else 
had;  for  in  Richard's  love  for  this  sweet,  blithe 
girl,  her  mother-heart  perceived  his  strongest 
safeguard,  and  her  selfishness  could  see  nothing 
amiss  in  the  sacrifice  of  innocent  young  girlhood 
upon  the  altar  of  a  hoped-for  reformation. 


COLLEGE — A  STUDY  OP  HOMES          121 

Yet,  if  a  growing  fear  lurked  about  her  heart, 
the  years  saw  no  change  in  her  home-life.  Home- 
wines  were  still  found  in  the  cellar.  She  refuse'd 
to  see  danger  lurking  in  the  amber-colored, 
quivering  jelly,  which  bore  the  pungent  flavor  of 
choice  old  Burgundy,  nor  in  the1  brandied  peaches 
upon  her  cellar  shelves. 

Nor  did  she  think  it  worth  while,  now  that 
there  were  young  Christians  in  the  family,  to  at- 
tempt new  reading  habits.  Another  might  have 
argued  that  these'  should  be  supplied  with  a  liter- 
ature which  in  itself  would  foster  and  develop  the 
new  experience,  and  bind  them  irrevocably  to  the 
new  life.  Not  she.  She"  had  lived  a  life  of  moral 
rectitude,  why  not  her  children?  She  did  not  ask 
more  than  a  moral  life  for  them ;  so  she  knew  no 
regret  when  Marie  and  Therese  lapsed  into  the 
old  worldly  life,  nor  but  little  uneasiness  when 
Richard,  at  long  intervals,  came  down  to  the 
morning  meal  with  aching  head  and  dull  eyes. 
Had  not  even  some  great  men  been  a  little  wild 
in  their  youth?  She  received  with  extreme  satis- 
faction his  ready  acquiescence  in  his  father's 
wishes  for  a  college  and  law  course.  She  was  sure' 
he  would  come  home  crowned  with  honor. 

Marie  had  yet  another  year  in  the  academy. 
She  had  always  been  a  beautiful  child,  and  was 


122  RICHARD  N^WCOMB 

growing  into  a  lovely  young  womanhood.  Her 
heart  and  impulses  were  good.  In  a  humbler 
or  Christian  home  she  might  have  developed  into 
a  strong  womanhood;  as  it  was,  she  became  a 
type  of  thousands  who  sacrifice  everything  to  the 
demands  of  dress  and  society.  She  could  "play" 
a  little  on  the  pianoforte;  but  of  music  as  an  art, 
a  life  study,  she  had  not  dreamed.  Had  she 
known  the  first  elements  of  hard  work  and  pa- 
tience, she  might,  in  time,  have  done  something 
as  an  artist;  as  it  was,  she  was  content  to  paint 
what  her  young  friends  styled  "perfectly  lovely 
pictures,"  and  then — smiled. 

Like  her  type,  she  would  probably  marry  early. 
Indeed,  in  the  home-circle,  her  "engagement"  to 
Charlie  Hudson,  "a  good  fellow,"  and,  what  was 
better,  the  son  of  Banker  Hudson,  was  already 
acknowledged ;  but  the  marriage  was  not  to  occur 
for  a  year.  Once  married,  she  would  become,  in 
all  likelihood,  a  conventional  society  woman  not 
unlike  her  mother. 

Therese  was  something  of  the  same  pattern, 
yet  there  was  a  certain  dash  about  her  that  gave 
one  a  sense'  of  uneasiness  akin  to  that  which  a 
restless  team  imparts,  not  knowing  exactly  what 
turn  it  may  take.  She  was  a  winsome  girl,  about 
the  same  age  as  Ruth  Stevenson,  and  between 


— A  STUDY  OF  HOMES          123 

these  two  a  warm  friendship  existed.  From  ear- 
liest childhood  she  had  been  inordinately  fond 
of  reading.  She  it  was  who  eagerly  cut  the 
magazine  pages  to  devour  its  monthly  dish  of 
"serials."  She  had  a  keen  literary  perception,  and 
had  she  had  a  faithful  guide  into  the  sweets  of 
poetry  or  the  wealth  of  history,  or  had  she  been 
directed  even  to  the  better  class  of  fiction,  how 
much  of  sorrow  would  have  been  averted!  As 
it  was,  she  was  left  largely  to  follow  her  own 
inclinations.  To  do  her  mother  justice,  when  she 
perceived  this  growing  and  absorbing  taste,  she 
did  try  to  check  it.  As  well  try  to  dam  a  stream 
and  leave  the  fountain  untouched.  So  Therese 
grew  to  live  more  and  more  in  the  realms  of  fancy, 
often  imagining  herself  the  heroine  of  whose 
woes  she  was  reading.  No  wonder  she  found  the 
Church  irksome,  the  home  dull,  and  the  plodding 
studies  of  school-life  unendurable. 

Standing  in  life  "where  the  brook  and  river 
meet,"  unconsciously  to  herself,  she  was  begin- 
ning to  long  for  an  exciting  experience  akin  to 
that  of  the  heroines  whose  exploits  she'  found  so 
thrilling. 

Before  we  leave  the  Newcombs  to  look  after 
the  students,  whom  we  left  rapidly  whirling 
collegeward,  we  must  look  in  upon  Mr.  New- 


124  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

comb  himself.  To  do  this  it  will  be  necessary 
to  seek  the  office;  for  he  is  seldom  at  home,  ex- 
cept to  hurried  meals  and  at  late  hours  for  slumber. 

Though  scarcely  fifty  years  of  age,  his  hair  is 
rapidly  whitening,  the  old-time  sprightliness  of 
step  is  gone,  yet  the  eyes  maintain  the  old  alert- 
ness, with  the 'addition  of  certainly  a  trace  of  fever- 
ish anxiety. 

Since  the  days  of  his  first  speculation  in  Burr- 
tonville  real  estate,  he  had  lived  a  restless  life. 
Through  the  troublous  days  of  the  war,  he  had 
so  successfully  managed  his  large  intere'sts  that 
his  fortune  had  doubled  and  trebled. 

Within  the  last  year,  Mrs.  Newcomb  noticed 
with  anxiety  that  he  was  becoming  more  and 
more  absorbed  in  his  business,  and  taking  on  a 
haggard  and  preoccupied  air.  She  had  never  been 
lacking  in  wifely  devotion,  and  it  was  with  fore- 
bodings she  began  to  expect  a  breaking-down  of 
his  health,  and  to  urge  him  to  take  time  for  re- 
cuperation; but  instead  he1  seemed  to  apply  him- 
self even  more  closely. 

He  had  always  been  a  loving  husband  and  in- 
dulgent father.  Nothing  that  money  could  devise 
to  make  the  home  happier  was  lacking,  hence 
there  never  was  a  thought  but  that  the  family 
purse  was  unlimited. 


COLLEGE — A  STUDY  OP  HOMES          125 

Mrs.  Newcomb  and  her  daughters  were  still 
punctilious  in  their  attendance  upon  the'  morning 
services  at  the  church,  but  it  had  come  to  pass 
that  Mr.  Newcomb  scarcely  ever  accompanied 
them.  Indeed,  he  found  no  day  so  free  from  in- 
^rruptions,  consequently  none  so  well  adapted 
for  work  on  his  ledger.  So,  Sabbath  after  Sab- 
bath, 'this  overworked  man  of  multiplied  cares 
sought  to  untangle  the  chaotic  threads  of  the  past 
week's  work. 

But  were  they  chaotic?  Not  once  did  Mrs. 
Newcomb  suspect  this ;  but  such  ugly  rumors  were 
rapidly  gaining  credence!  As  a  drowning  man 
rapidly  divests  himself  of  any  burden  which  hin- 
ders his  life-struggle,  so  it  was  apparent  that  Will- 
iam Newcomb  was  drawing  his  business  affairs 
into  a  narrower  circle. 

Still  the  ponderous  wheels  of  the  great  mill 
swung  around  with  lightning  rapidity.  The  fur- 
nace fires  glowed  brightly,  and  the  huge  chimneys 
were  black  with  the  cloud  which  overhung  them 
night  and  day. 

There  were  certainly  no  signs  of  decay  about 
that  busy  hive,  and  if  aught  of  the  rumors  were 
true,  it  was  compelled  to  remain  a  rurflor;  for 
the  lips  of  the  proprietor  were  closely  sealed,  and 
his  bearing  as  self-confident  as  ever. 


XI 

Developed  Characters 

IT  was  with  mingled  feelings  that  Asbury  and 
Louise  found  themselves  at  the  last  moment 
hurried  from  the  quiet  of  the  home  upon  the 
journey  which  was  to  open  to  them  the  coveted 
ne\v  life.  Keen  regret  was  felt  as  the  reflection 
obtruded  itself  upon  their  young  minds,  as  it  had 
upon  their  mother's,  that  the  old  home-life  was 
forever  gone. 

But  just  ahead  lay  that  wonderful  future  called 
"life,"  whose  successes  and  failures  so  surely 
awaited  them,  and  before  which  intervened  a  few 
coveted  years  of  college  life.  And  as  each  re- 
called the  self-denial  of  the  family  life,  the  hard- 
working father  and  mother,  it  seemed  marvelous 
that  the  dream  of  years  was  being  realized.  So 
it  might  be  forgiven  them  if,  with  the  natural 
regret,  was  mingled  not  a  little  proud  exhilaration 
and  joyous  expectancy  for  the  life  ahead. 

This  was  particularly  true  of  Asbury.  All  his 
life  he  had  been  naturally  studious.  The  quiet 

home  evenings  had  been  rich  in  their  implanting 

126 


DEVELOPED  CHARACTERS      127 

in  his  mind  of  broad  plans  for  the  future ;  for  dur- 
ing these  had  been  developed  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  men  and  women  whose  lives  had 
shaped  Church  and  State,  and  as  the  acquaintance 
grew,  his  young  heart  had  beaten  in  unison  with 
their  struggle's  and  triumphs,  and  unconsciously 
had  grown  up  the  desire  also  to  live  for  a  purpose, 
making  some  little  corner  of  the  world  better  for 
his  having  lived  in  it.  Then  had  come  his  con- 
version. Again,  the  still,  solemn  promptings  of 
the  Spirit,  which  kne\v  no  rest  till  he  had  given 
his  life  to  the  service  of  his  King.  And  now  he 
was  about  realizing  his  desires.  Little  wonder  that 
the  past  rapidly  melted  into  the  glorious  future. 

Louise,  though  in  a  different  way,  shared  his 
enthusiasm.  The  parting  between  herself  and 
Richard  had  been  full  of  mutual  hope's  and 
pledges  for  the  future,  and  though  years  should 
intervene  before  the  fruition  of  their  hopes,  still 
they  were  young  and  strong  in  each  other's  love; 
therefore  the  parting  was  without  bitterness. 

And  though  she  began  her  collegiate  course 
with  a  tumult  of  heart  of  which  staid  Asbury 
knew  nothing,  yet  it  was  with  re'al  girlish  enthusi- 
asm that  she,  too,  found  herself  journeying  college- 
ward. 

The  journey  occupied  a  day  and  a  night,  and 


128  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

after  a  few  hours  the  dainty  lunch  was  gotten  out. 
How  welcome  the  flaky  bread !  how  delicious  the 
home  butter!  and  what  motherly  remembrances 
had  been  exercised  in  preparing  some  specially- 
liked  delicacy ! 

About  dusk  the  following  day,  the  travelers 
found  themselves  at  the  end  of  their  journey. 

They  experienced  a  momentary  shade  of  dis- 
appointment as  they  stepped  into  the  fitful,  weird 
light  of  the  platform.  How  small  the  town !  But 
each  remembered  it  was  the  university  they  had 
come  to  seek,  and  the  great  noisy  crowds  of  young 
men  and  women  proclaimed  it  a  university  town. 
Trunks  came  tumbling  off  by  the  dozen.  Old 
friends,  jolly  comrades  of  the  past,  called  out  to 
each  other  in  noisy  and  exuberant  greeting.  Yet 
if  the  many  were  thus  at  home  in  their  surround- 
ings, not  a  few  stood  hesitatingly,  not  knowing 
just  which  way  to  turn.  Among  these  last  were 
Asbury  and  Louise ;  but  not  long.  They  soon 
found  temporary  lodging  for  the  night,  and  the 
next  day  found  them  settled — Asbury  to  room 
near  the  college,  and  Louise  in  a  home  farther 
away.  Acquaintances  were'  rapidly  made,  the  col- 
lege course  was  studied,  each  was  classified,  and 
student  life  began. 

It  was  indeed  a  delightful  experience  to  awaken 


DEVELOPED  CHARACTERS      129 

in  the  morning  absolutely  free  from  care.  No 
waiting,  insisting  breakfast  to  be  gotten;  no  hur- 
rying, that  the  burdensome  dishwashing  might 
be  gotten  rid  of  before  school;  no  lowing  stock- 
to  be  fed  and  watered ;  no  horses  to  be  curried ; 
in  short,  perfect  freedom  from  the  old,  exacting 
cares,  with  time  to  study,  time  for  exercise,  with 
the  environments  constantly  tending  to  bring  out 
the  best  there  was  in  one.  Here  was  an  entire 
community  of  young  people,  all,  with  hardly  an 
exception,  earnestly  at  work.  At  home,  in  the 
acade'my,  both  Asbury  and  Louise  had  been 
known  as  the  "best  students ;"  but  here  they  soon 
found  that  if  the  old  order  of  supremacy  was  to 
be  maintained,  hard  study  was  before  each. 

Perhaps  in  no  place  in  which  one  finds  him- 
self is  the  aristocracy  of  intellect  so  apparent  as 
in  a  college.  Wealth,  social  position,  even  the 
cut  and  material  of  one's  clothes,  matters  but 
little;  but  the  essential  question  is,  "Are  they 
good  students?"  It  took  but  little  time  for  our 
young  friends  to  demonstrate  this  question  to  the 
satisfaction  alike  of  Faculty  and  students,  and 
they  were  soon  received  into  the  inner  sanctum 
of  good  favor  and  fellowship. 

So  well  had  Asbury  improved  his  time  at  home', 
that  after  his  examination  he  found  he  would  have 
9 


130  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

but  three  years  in  the  college.  He  hoped  for  an 
additional  year  or  two  for  special  preparation  for 
his  life-work. 

Louise,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  yet  another 
year  in  the  academy,  so  she  felt  well  satisfied  upon 
being  admitted  to  the  freshman  class,  where  she 
soon  became  known  as  a  hard-working  student. 
Her  sunny  disposition,  that  had  made  sunshine 
in  the  old  farmhouse,  as  well  as  her  ready  helpful- 
ness, soon  made  her  de'servedly  popular.  Added 
to  these  traits  was  her  clear,  rich  voice,  which 
soon  made  her  presence  at  social  gatherings  much 
sought  after. 

No,  Louise  Stevenson  did  not  go  to  college  as 
a  recluse,  to  dream  of  nothing  but  her  absent 
lover,  but  rather  as  a  clear-brained,  wide-awake 
girl,  who  meant  to  get  as  much  as  possible  out 
of  life.  She  made  many  friends;  but  her  most 
intimate  ones  soon  came  to  know  that  there  was 
a  reserve,  a  sort  of  inner  sanctuary,  into  which 
none  entered;  for  Louise  was  faithful  to  her  ab- 
sent lover. 

Though  her  mother  was  building  much  on  the 
new  scenes  that  were  to  break  the  fatal  spell  of 
early  love,  with  Louise  such  scenes  could  come — 
she  could  even  grow  to  be  a  strong  factor  in  these 
associations — yet  even  as  the  needle  points  irre- 


DEVELOPED  CHARACTERS      131 

sistibly  towards  the  North  Star,  quite  as  surely 
did  the  soul  of  this  earnest  and  sincere'  girl  cleave 
to  the  absent.  Poor,  anxious  mother-heart !  You 
may  as  well  know  now  that  there  is  nothing  which 
will  sever  this  tie!  Nothing?  Hold!  There  is 
a  pure,  brave  heart  in  that  girlish  breast;  there 
is  clear  knowledge  of  right  and  wrong;  more,  a 
hatred  of  wrong ;  and  there  is  a  will  strong  enough 
to  lay  down  a  life  or  a  love  if  right  should  so  de- 
mand. Closely  should  the  absent  lover  watch  his 
actions,  lest  they  be  the  power  that  breaks  the 
sweet  tie. 

Among  the  new  friends  Louise  had  made,  her 
room-mate,  Emma  Ward,  grew  to  be  one  of  the 
dearest.  Her  home  was  in  a  distant  Eastern  city. 
About  it  was  that  rare  atmosphere — the  union 
of  wealth  with  true  Christian  culture;  and  rarer 
still,  she  had  seen  this  wealth  held  simply  as  a 
means  providentially  given  to  help  in  the  problem 
of  the  world's  betterment,  and  one  of  her  earliest 
lessons  had  been  that  the  possession  or  non-pos- 
session of  wealth  by  the  individual  was  often  a 
mere  accident  of  circumstances ;  but  that  lack  of 
this,  in  determining  friendships,  should  be  the 
solid  rock  of  personal  worth  and  character;  and 
hence,  although  in  the  Ward  mansion  the  petty 
economies  and  hard  work  with  which  the  Steven- 


132  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

son  young  people  were  so  familiar  were  unknown, 
yet  the  ideals  were  the  same.  In  the  mansion, 
quite  as  truly  as  in  the  farmhouse,  was  God 
loved  and  served.  Therefore  it  was  not  strange 
that  a  warm  personal  friendship  sprang  into  ex- 
istence, a  friendship  that  came  to  be  far-reaching 
in  its  effects  upon  Louise. 

Emma  had  been  in  the  college  the  previous 
year,  so  had  not  about  her  the  shyness  of  the  new- 
comer. She  was  known  as  a  good  student,  yet 
not  particularly  brilliant.  Moreover  she  was  of 
a  bright,  fun-loving  disposition.  From  the  first 
hour  of  meeting,  she  was  strongly  attached  to  the 
shy  country  girl,  and  when,  one  Sunday  evening, 
in  the  privacy  of  their  room,  Louise  began,  with 
her  marvelously  sweet  voice,  to  sing  some  of  the 
Church  hymns  so  familiar  in  both  homes,  the 
work  was  done — Emma's  homage  was  complete 
from  that  hour.  As  for  Louise,  the  friendship 
proved  to  be  the  one  touch  necessary  to  draw  her 
out  of  herself,  and  teach  her  the  delights  of  the 
social  side  of  college  life. 


But  there  is  yet  another  student  in  whom  we 
are  interested.  Richard  Newcomb  had  left  for 
college  with  emotions  far  different  from  any  he 


DEVELOPED  CHARACTEBS  133 

had  before  known — emotions  little  guessed  by  any 
of  his  home  circle,  save  his  father.  To  under- 
stand these,  it  is  necessary  to  go  back  to  that 
morning  when,  angry  at  the  unexpected  opposi- 
tion of  Louise's  mother,  he  strode  out  from  the 
farmhouse,  determined  to  lay  his  plans  before 
his  father.  It  will  be  remembered  that  after  this 
interview  he  had  gone  out  silent  and  oppressed, 
willing  to  abide  by  his  father's  suggestions.  Let 
us  go  back  to  that  interview.  As  this  prema- 
turely old,  care-engrossed  man,  who,  like  many 
another,  had  lost  his  family  in  a  sea  of  business, 
looked  into  the  handsome,  glowing  face,  there' 
swept  into  his  heart  a  vision  of  the  old  days  at 
Lynton,  when  he  had  wooed  and  won  the  beauti- 
ful Margaret.  Patiently  he  heard  the  story  to  the 
end,  but  the  remorselessly  keen  eyes  gave  no 
trace  of  tenderness  as  he  sternly  said:  "You  are 
barely  twenty-one,  not  yet  out  of  school.  You 
have  no  profession  and  notions  of  business  that  I 
have  ever  been  able  to  discover." 

Richard  winced.  Yes,  he  had  often  declaimed 
against  the  irksome  confinement  of  the  office. 

"Do  you  think  it  wise  to  take  a  wife  to  pov- 
erty?" 

"But,  father,  I  see'  my  folly.  Give  me  a  small, 
humble  place  in  your  business." 


134  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"My  business!"  bitterly  interrupted  the  elder. 
"Come  with  me;"  and  there  in  the  curtained  al- 
cove, the  place  where  Mr.  Newcomb  spent  so 
much  time  with  his  books,  Richard  caught  his  first 
glimpse  of  the  bankruptcy  which,  like  a  threaten- 
ing sword,  hung  over  the  entire  Newcomb  in- 
terests. 

The  young  man  was  stunned,  bewildered ;  for 
while  rumors  of  "JSiewcomb's  changing  luck"  had, 
within  the  years,  been  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  and 
far-seeing  business  men,  foreseeing  the  end,  were 
carefully  withdrawing  their  own  capital  from 
enterprises  he  still  considered  safe,  yet  this  all  was 
wholly  unsuspected  by  the  family,  and  fell  upon 
Richard  with  the  force  of  a  thunderbolt. 

"We  may  avert  it  for  a  year,"  continued  the 
father ;  "but  if  you  are  wise  you  will  go  to  college 
while  you  can,  get  a  profession,  and  be  ready  for 
life." 

"Yes,  it  is  the  inevitable,"  thought  the  stunned 
Richard.  "I  will  go." 

The  college  selected  was  one  of  the  oldest,  and 
carried  the  proud  pre'stige  of  being  one  of  the  most 
influential  in  all  America.  Long  lists  of  its  alumni 
were  holding  positions  of  honor  and  trust  through- 
out the  country.  While  this  remained  true,  yet 
some  other  matters  were  not  so  satisfactory. 


DEVELOPED  CHARACTERS  135 

While  there  was  a  class  of  hard-working,  pains- 
taking students,  who  were  making  the  most  of 
their  opportunities,  there  was  a  large  "crowd,"  or 
several  "crowds,"  who  spent  their  evenings  in 
bacchanalian  revelry,  and  among  the  unsatisfactory 
results  was  the  fact,  well  known  and  widely  com- 
mented upon,  that  many  students  went  out  from 
this  proud  institution  utterly  wrecked  in  morals. 

Richard,  upon  his  entrance,  was  soon  a  favor- 
ite. He  entered  with  energy  upon  his  studies.  His 
fine  physique  and  manly  appearance  won  for  him 
many  favorable  comments;  for  even  at  that  day 
athletics  were  coming  into  prominence.  Then 
he  had  a  certain  boyish  artlessness  or  frankness, 
which  strongly  appealed  to  the  heart.  His  natural 
oratorical  powers  soon  came  out  in  the  society 
meetings;  so  it  was  not  long  till  it  was  decided 
that  he'  would  be  an  addition  to  any  "set." 

He  had  gone  to  college  with  such  strong  reso- 
lutions to  bring  out  and  develop  the  best  that 
was  in  him.  Perhaps  these  latter  might  have  been 
helped  had  he'  chosen  a  college — or  rather,  if  his 
parents  had  chosen  for  him  one — which  had  cared 
less  for  prestige  and  more  for  the  morals  of  its 
students,  one  that  did  not  fear  to  stand  before 
the  world  as  a  distinctively  Christian  institution. 
But  of  this  we  shall  see. 


XII 

Richard  and  Louise 

"TT  is  a  fact  that  in  every  college,  however 
1  small  or  great,  there  are  at  least  two 
'crowds'  or  'sets,'  oftener  more,  and  much  of  a 
student's  success  depends  upon  the  set  with  which 
he  becomes  identified."  So  wrote  a  wise  editor, 
and  so,  one  morning  shortly  after  her  arrival, 
read  Louise;  and  reading  it,  she  laid  the  paper 
down  to  speculate  upon  the  truth  of  the  state- 
ment. Yes,  it  was  true ;  even  her  short  experience1 
told  her  as  much.  There  was  even  here,  she  rec- 
ognized, though  held  in  check  by  the  high  moral 
character  of  the  institution,  a  set,  bound  by  ties 
of  congeniality,  whose  watchword  was  "fun  and 
a  good  time."  If  they  could  only  have  fun,  no 
price  was  too  dear  to  pay  for  it.  Yet  thete  was 
another,  and  these  made  up  the1  majority,  who 
were  hard-working  and  painstaking,  reaching  re- 
sults not  attempted  by  the  gayer  crowd. 

Into  which  had  these  young  friends  of  ours 
fallen?     They  had  been  hard-working  at  home; 
they  were  not  likely  to  choose  idleness  now.    Their 
136 


RICHARD  AND  LOUISE  137 

sweetest  associations,  outside  of  their  home-life, 
had  be'en  found  in  the  Church.  They  naturally 
turned  to  it  now,  and  erelong  these  two  became 
known,  not  only  as  careful  students,  but  con- 
sistent Christians  as  well;  Louise,  in  the  mean- 
while, helped  and  broadene'd,  as  it  is  not  hard  for 
us  to  guess,  by  the  companionship  of  that  re- 
fined, cultured  young  Christian,  Emma  Ward. 

Asbury  naturally  took  his  place  among  the 
young  theologues.  His  room-mate,  Earnest 
Warren,  was,  like  himself,  a  divinity  student,  yet 
from  his  predilections  it  seemed  not  unlikely  that 
he  might  eventually  find  his  niche  as  a  teacher 
of  the  sciences  he  loved  so  well.  His  home  was 
in  the  State  of  Ohio,  and  his  family  of  the  "plain 
people,"  who  had  economized  that  their  son 
might  have  that  lever  denied  to  them,  an  edu- 
cation. After  this  glance  at  the  associates  of  As- 
bury and  Louise,  with  whom  it  is  safe  to  leave 
them,  we  turn  to  ask,  What  of  those  of  Richard 
Newcomb  ? 

Among  the  great  body  of  students  was  one, 
Will  Braceton,  a  fellow  of  rugged,  robust  build, 
and  withal  of  a  good  mind.  He  might  have  easily 
led  his  class  in  any  study  had  he  chosen;  but  he 
chose  to  be  the  leader  of  a  set  which  was  itself 
a  leader  in  most  of  the  mischief  which  a  wild,  fun- 


138  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

loving  crowd  of  unrestrained  young  fellows  could 
devise.  Had  they  been  contented  with  harmless 
fun,  or  even  mere  mischief,  all  might  have  been 
well;  for  neither  is  Dame  Fortune  nor  yet  the 
world  such  a  churl  but  that  it  condones  the  harm- 
less exuberance  of  youth.  But  it  was  not  uncom- 
mon for  them  to  gather  in  Braceton's  room,  or 
some  place  of  his  appointment,  drink  wine,  and 
carouse  till  the  early  morning  hours.  Yet  this  was 
not  known  outside  of  the  company,  and,  with  many, 
Braceton  stood  for  much  that  was  good. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  opening  of  the  school- 
year,  at  one  of  these  "evenings"  in  Will's  room, 
he  suddenly  said:  "I  tell  you  what,  boys,  that 
Richard  Newcomb  is  all  right.  We  must  show 
him  every  possible  attention,  and  win  him  for  our 
crowd." 

From  that  hour,  Richard  had  no  need  of  home- 
sickness; for  there  were  patronizing  friends  at 
every  turn,  and  very  soon  the  character  of  the  new 
friendships  became  too  evident.  Richard's  past 
experiences  instantly  warned  him  of  the  danger 
lurking  in  the  proffered  friendship,  and  he  was 
brave  and  firm  in  his  determination  that  he  would 
allow  nothing  to  interfere  with  the  steady  course  of 
hard  work  he  had  marked  out  for  himself.  Ah! 
had  it  not  been  for  that  caged  demon  of  appetite, 


RICHARD  AND  LOUISK  139 

which,  having  been  fed  and  pampered  into  exist- 
ence, angry  at  its  whilom  confinement,  revenged 
itself  now  by  wild  periods,  when  it  clamored  to 
reassert  itself! 

Yet  without  special  incident  the  months  of  the 
college-year  sped  by  with  astonishing  swiftness, 
and  the  summer  vacation  began  to  look  entranc- 
ingly  near,  not  only  to  Richard,  but  to  Louise  and 
Asbury  as  well. 

One  day,  perhaps  a  month  before  Commence- 
ment, Louise  and  Emma  had  gone  to  their  room 
from  a  rehearsal  of  some  music  for  Commence- 
ment, when  Emma,  who  had  been  balancing  her- 
self upon  the  edge  of  the  bed,  said,  "Louise,  I  tell 
you,  you  have  a  fortune  in  your  voice." 

"A  fortune!"  and  Louise's  lips  curled  a  bit  at 
the  thought.  "And  so,  Miss  Thrifty,  I  suppose  I 
had  better  go  on  the  stage." 

"O,  you  need  not  be  so  uppish  about  the  mat- 
ter," Emma  replied,  with  school-girl  freedom. 
"There  might  be  a  fortune  and  still  no  stage.  Our 
Church  pays  Mrs.  Stanton  twenty-five  dollars  each 
Sabbath,  which  is  a  fortune  not  to  be  sneered  at, 
with  no  stage  to  bother  a  conscientious  little  Puri- 
tan." 

"Twenty-five  dollars  for  a  few  songs,"  mused 
Louise  when  alone.  "Twenty-five  dollars,  Sab- 


140  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

bath  after  Sabbath,  even  for  a  few  months,  how 
many  comforts  such  a  sum  would  buy  for  the 
home-folks!  Yes,  how  far  such  a  sum  would  go 
towards  defraying  the  heavy  college  expenses!" 
Louise  resolved  in  her  heart  to  study  even  harder 
to  bring  out  every  possible  quality  of  her  voice; 
and  if — yes,  if  the  future  should  ever  bring  such 
an  opportunity,  she  might  be  prepared  to  grasp  it. 
How  strangely  are  the  mingled  threads  of  our 
destiny  ,  interwoven !  On  the  day  following  this 
conversation,  Emma  broke  the  seal  of  a  letter  from 
home.  Among  other  items  of  home  news  was  the 
casual  one  that  Mrs.  Stanton,  the  soprano,  was  in 
rapidly  failing  health,  and  had  been  ordered  to  the 
mountains.  The  next  mail  home,  unknown  to 
Louise,  carried  a  letter  extolling  Louise's  singing, 
citing  references  if  desired,  and  urging  her  father 
to  secure  the  position  during  the  summer  for 
Louise.  And  strange  to  say  (no,  not  strange 
either,  for  Emma's  father  was  the  one  person  in 
the  Church  who  had  this  matter  almost  solely  in 
charge ;  besides,  he  not  only  had  great  faith  in  his 
daughter's  judgment,  but  had  grown  to  feel  a  great 
interest  in  the  sweet-voiced  girl  of  whom  she  wrote 
so  enthusiastically),  a  letter  came,  offering  the  va- 
cant place  to  Louise  for  the  summer,  with  the  same 
salary  as  that  paid  to  Mrs.  Stanton,  with  the  added 


RICHARD  AND  I,OUISE  141 

assurance  that,  if  desired,  a  class  of  music  pupils 
could  be  secured.  This  seemed  almost  like  an 
offer  from  a  fairyland  to  Louise.  She  wanted  to 
accept  it;  but,  then,  how  hungry  she  had  grown 
for  the  expected  visit  home,  and  this  would  mean 
another  year's  absence! 

With  realistic  vividness  the  loved  farmhouse 
arose  to  view;  but  the  picture  was  not  without 
its  touch  of  pathos.  There  were  father  and  mother, 
worn  and  becoming  bent  with  toil ;  then  there  were 
the  boys, — pretty  soon  they  ought  to  be  knocking 
at  a  college  door;  and  there  was  Ruth  and  little 
Rose.  Yes,  the  family  needs  were  imperative,  and 
certainly  this  was  a  providential  duty ;  but  she  must 
write  the  home-folks  and  get  their  sanction.  And 
we,  too,  will  follow  the  letter  bearing  this  ques- 
tion to  its  destination,  the  farm. 

June,  with  its  rare  wealth  of  beauty,  had  come. 
The  great  rose-climber,  which  yearly  changed  the 
whole  south  side  of  the  Stevenson  home  into  a 
bewildering  maze  of  beauty,  hung  full  of  rich 
clusters  of  lovely  roses. 

Within  the  home,  Ruth  and  her  mother  were 
busy  about  the  morning  tasks.  The  great  fireplace 
seems  a  bank  of  coolness ;  for  Ruth,  with  an  artistic 
touch,  has  filled  it  full  of  tall,  fringe-like  boughs  of 
full-grown  asparagus,  and  upon  the  red  bricks  of 


142  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

the  hearth  stands  a  great,  old-fashioned  bowl  of 
roses.  Just  now  she  is  placing  another  in  the  win- 
dow-ledge. As  she  does  so  she  is  saying  to  her 
mother:  "I  can  hardly  realize  that  within  a  very 
few  weeks,  Asbury  and  Louise  will  be  here.  Dear 
me,  how  we  will  welcome  them !"  A  tender  smile 
played  over  the  mother's  lips  as  she  replied,  "And 
we  must  try  not  to  think  how  few  the  weeks  of  the 
vacation  will  be." 

Just  then  the  sound  of  brisk  hoofs  echoed  from 
the  shady  lane,  and  Edward  soon  came  in,  saying, 
"A  letter  from  Louise!" 

Mrs.  Stevenson  sat  down  to  read,  and  read  with 
growing  wonder  the  offer  of  the  distant  Church. 
Father  soon  came  in,  and  together  the  wonderful 
news  was  discussed.  "No,  they  could  not  consider 
the  offer.  Give  up  Louise  for  another  year?" 
But  an  hour  ago,  life  had  seemed  richer,  fuller,  as 
the  memory  of  the  sweet  girl  had  brightened  the 
little  room.  So  said  Rachel,  so  thought  the  father, 
and  so  said  the  brothers  and  sisters.  Rachel  took 
the  letter  to  again  read,  in  the  quiet  of  the  little 
back  porch.  What  a  tempting  offer  it  was,  after 
all !  Just  then  her  eyes  lighted  upon  her  husband, 
who,  lost  in  thought,  had  leaned,  half  wearily, 
against  the  well-curb.  Yes,  he  was  growing  old, 
if  not  in  years,  at  least  in  toil.  How  bent  the 


RICHARD  AND  LOUISE  143 

form !  The  plain  working-garb  gave  no  hint  of 
the  strong,  honest  heart  which  throbbed  under- 
neath this  uncouth  covering.  A  sense  of  the  su- 
perior advantages  the  children  were  having  swept 
through  her  heart ;  and  she  turned  again  to  a 
paragraph  in  Louise's  letter: 

"At  first  I  could  not  think  of  this,  I  want  so 
much  to  see  you  all;  but  when  I  remember  how 
hard  you  all  work,  and  how  soon  the  other  chil- 
dren will  demand  an  education,  I  am  forced  to 
believe  this  offer  is  a  providence,  and  that  I  ought 
to  go." 

Rachel  was  glad  the  inexorable  dinner  claimed 
her  attention,  that  she  might  rid  herself  in  action 
of  this  new  question  that  clamored  for  a  settle- 
ment. And  it  was  settled.  Another  day  a  letter 
went  to  Louise,  bidding  her  God-speed,  and  say- 
ing perhaps  it  was  best  that  she  should  go. 

Emma,  in  true  school-girl  fashion,  almost  went 
wild  over  the  decision ;  for  it  had  been  her  greatest 
wish  that  Louise  should  accompany  her  home,  and 
now  it  was  coming  about  as  she  had  wished.  And 
she  gave  expression  to  her  delight  by  waltzing  the 
highly  perturbed  Louise  about  the  room  in  the 
most  approved  school-girl  style. 


144  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Asbury  had  known  nothing  of  all  this,  as  yet. 
On  the  very  day  this  home  letter  had  come  to 
Louise,  Emma  met  him  on  the  college  walk  (by 
the  way,  we  have  not  had  time  to  mention  it  be- 
fore, these  young  people  were  getting  to  be  ex- 
traordinarily good  friends),  and  forthwith  pro- 
ceeded to  tell  him  the  wonderful  piece  of  news. 
He,  of  course,  was  more  than  surprised,  and  with 
the  surprise  was  mingled  a  queer  feeling  he  could 
not  define.  He  knew  it  was  a  trial  for  Louise  to 
give  up  her  visit  home ;  a  trial  to  the  home  folks  to 
give  it  up.  Still  it  was  such  rare  good  luck,  why 
wasn't  there  anything  he  could  do?  But  no;  his 
duty  seemed  plain.  He  must  go  home  and  help 
through  the  summer  on  the  farm. 


Louise  dreaded  most  of  all  to  tell  Richard;  for 
they  had  counted  so  much  on  the  summer  to- 
gether. But  while  she  hesitated,  a  letter  came  from 
him,  telling  her  his  father  wanted  him  to  take  a 
western  trip,  as  soon  as  vacation  had  come,  and 
look  after  some  land,  which  would  take  perhaps  a 
month  or  longer;  but  that  on  his  way  home  from 
college  he  would  stop  for  a  visit.  Poor  Louise! 
She  must  not  be  thought  lacking  in  loyalty  to  the 
home-folks  if,  after  this  letter,  there  came  a  greater 


RICHARD  AND  L,OUISE  145 

reconciliation  to  the  loss  of  her  vacation.  These 
few  remaining  weeks  were  given  to  hard  study; 
for  she  determined  to  make  herself  worthy  of 
Emma's  strong  commendation. 

One  day,  as  she  was  returning  from  practice, 
Emma  came  rushing  out  to  meet  her,  saying  a 
stranger  had  called,  and  before  she  had  time  to 
think,  she  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  Richard 
Newcomb,  who,  having  finished  the  year's  exam- 
inations, and  caring  nothing  for  the  closing  exer- 
cises, had  come  on,  again  to  be  in  the  presence  of 
her  whom  he  had  so  truly  loved.  Ah,  the  all-suffi- 
ciency of  those  hours !  The  skies  seemed  bluer  and 
brighter  than  ever  before ;  the  lazy  flecks  of  white 
clouds  floated  above  in  a  dreamy  sort  of  way, 
strangely  indicative  of  the  present  completeness  of 
the  life  of  each.  Let  heartaches  cease!  let  fore- 
bodings for  the  future  be  still!  Simply  to  be  to- 
gether was  happiness  enough  in  itself.  Richard 
found  that  the  shy  country  girl  he  had  loved  and 
won  had  in  a  year  become  such  a  perfect  woman 
that  any  man  might  feel  proud,  even  of  a  glance. 
Hard  study  and  cultured  surroundings  had  done 
their  work  well  in  rounding  and  developing  the 
person  as  well  as  the  mind. 

But  his  greatest  surprise  came  when  he  heard 
her  sing.  Yes,  that  was  the  same  old  sweet  voice 


146  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

which  had  joined  with  him  in  many  a  duet  in  that 
far-off  time,  their  childhood,  or  in  the  later  years 
of  their  academy  life;  but  how  changed!  Had  he 
ever  dreamed  of  anything  so  full  and  rich?  And 
with  a  thrill  of  pride,  he  said  over  and  over  to  him- 
self, "And  she  is  mine;  that  true  heart  is  mine 
forever." 

The  wealth  of  Croesus  is  none  too  great  to  lay 
at  the  feet  of  such  a  peerless  creature!  How  an- 
noying the  fate  that  had  brought  his  father  to 
such  financial  straits!  O  well,  he  had  tided 
through  a  year;  perhaps  in  another,  his  feet  would 
be  on  firm  ground  again.  If  not,  this  woman  he 
loved  would  value  wealth  of  mind  and  of  heart 
higher  than  of  purse,  and  nothing  should  deter  or 
hinder  him  in  climbing  the  highest  intellectual 
heights. 

Such  were  his  thoughts,  such  his  meditations; 
but  why,  just  here,  did  he  pause,  or  why  the  sud- 
den mantling  of  his  cheek?  O,  not  for  the  world 
would  he  have  Louise  know  the  cause  of  this 
blush  that,  in  the  purity  of  her  presence,  there 
had  rushed  over  him  a  realization  of  the  coarse- 
ness of  the  Braceton  set,  of  which  he  was  now 
a  fully-accredited  member.  How  he  despised 
himself  and  his  weakness  as  he  remembered  the 
wild,  hilarious  evenings,  when,  with  wine  and 


RICHARD  AND  I,ouiss  147 

cards,  he  and  the  fellows  had  had  a  "time !"  Look- 
ing now  into  Louise's  clear  eyes  he  saw  the 
danger — a  danger  which,  to  tell  the  truth,  had 
often  suggested  itself  during  the  collegiate  year, 
but  which  he  had  silenced  by  the  argument :  "Why 
should  I  not  belong  to  this  crowd  ?  They  all  come 
from  families  that  represent  wealth  and  culture; 
besides,  they  are  all  good  fellows,  and  mean  noth- 
ing more  than  the  enlivenment  of  the  dull  routine 
of  college-life."  What  if  there  were  wine  and 
cards?  He  did  not  expect  to  become  a  total  ab- 
stainer; even  now,  in  his  father's  cellar,  were  bot- 
tles of  choice,  rich,  home-made  wines ;  and  as  for 
cards?  Yes,  there  were  people  strangely  prej- 
udiced against  them ;  but  the  shapely,  white  hands 
of  his  mother  had  first  taught  him  skill  in  their 
use.  Of  course,  with  all  this,  as  she  had  said,  "dis- 
cretion" must  be  used,  and  he  prided  himself  upon 
the  possession  of  this  valuable  quality. 

Yet  would  he  have  had  Louise  know  this  "dis- 
cretion" had  more  than  once  failed  him  during 
these  closing  weeks,  and  that  he  had  been  taken 
to  his  room  the  worse  for  wine? 

When  he  had  first  gone  to  college,  the  Sab- 
bath bells  awakened  thoughts  of  Louise  and  of 
God.  He  then  regularly  attended  church;  for 
while  there  he  had  seemed  nearer  her  whom  he 


148  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

loved.  But  with  the  flight  of  the  months,  and 
under  the  influence  of  his  new  companions,  he 
had  gone  less  and  less.  Yet  now,  looking  into  the 
pure  eyes  of  Louise,  he  was  conscious  of  a  desire 
for  a  different  life.  What  if,  after  all,  the  Steven- 
son theory  of  life  were  the  correct  one?  What  if 
Aunt  Rachel  were  not  the  fanatic  he  had  so  often 
called  her? 

Yet  he  could  not  allow  such  uncomfortable 
thoughts  to  mar  this  week  of  great  happiness ;  so 
he  resolutely  brushed  aside  the  obtruding  thought. 
There  was  the  usual  crowding,  into  one  little  week, 
of  sermons,  lectures,  and  addresses.  To  all  such 
it  became  his  pleasure  to  accompany  his  be- 
trothed. 

One  evening  there  was  a  lecture  before  one  of 
the  ladies'  literary  societies.  The  subject  of  the 
speaker  was  the  old  one  of  a  "Woman's  King- 
dom," which,  after  a  few  complimentary  prefatory 
remarks  concerning  women  as  philanthropists,  re- 
formers, et  al.,  the  speaker  proceeded  to  show  was 
the  home.  One  sentence  burned  into  the  brain 
of  Richard  Newcomb.  It  was  this: 

"There  can  be  no  such  thing  as  happiness 
when  husband  and  wife  find  themselves  with  un- 
congenial tastes.  The  home  is  a  superstructure 
depending  for  its  success  upon  the  complete  union 


RICHARD  AND  LOUISE  149 

of  two  hearts,  and  this  union  can  not  exist  be- 
tween persons  of  tastes  diametrically  opposed." 

"O,  that  is  all  nonsense!"  Richard  had  said  to 
himself,  as  the  speaker,  continuing,  urged  caution 
upon  a  young  girl  of  religious  habits  who  found 
herself  coming  to  care  for  a  man  who  did  not 
possess  them. 

But  down  in  his  heart  he  acknowledged  the 
truth  of  what  he  was  hearing  by  resolving  to 
eschew  the  friendships  that  were  surely  leading 
him  to  "tastes  diametrically  opposed"  to  those  of 
the  sweet  girl  by  his  side. 


XIII 

The  Preacher — A  Soprano — Flossie 

THE  week  passed  all  too  quickly.  Soon,  As- 
bury  and  Richard  had  turned  their  faces 
toward  the  home  of  their  childhood,  and  Louise 
was  journeying  Eastward  in  her  new  capacity  of 
wage-earner. 

Asbury  received  a  warm  welcome  home,  though 
the  joy,  like  many  another  joy,  had  its  bitter  edge ; 
for  the  bright  young  girl  who  should  have  accom- 
panied him  was  miles  away,  and  many  months  must 
elapse  before  she  would  brighten  the  home  with 
her  presence. 

He  showed  at  once  how  utterly  unspoiled  he 
was  by  going  to  work  on  the  farm  with  all  the 
energy  of  his  nature,  spurred  on,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, by  the  secret  thought  that,  work  hard  as 
he  might,  dainty,  girlish  Louise  was  doing  more 
than  he. 

What  a  comfort  he  was  to  his  father,  and  how 

that  father  grew  to  lean  upon  and  to  place  more 

and  more  upon  those  broad,  manly  shoulders  the 

burdens  of  the  farm !     As  for  Rachel,  never  did 

150 


THE  PREACHER  151 

Hannah,  in  the  sweet  old  Bible  story,  feel  more 
genuine  mother-pride  in  her  priestly  son  than  did 
this  modern  mother  in  this  her  first-born,  chosen 
of  the  Lord. 

His  influence,  too,  was  felt  outside  the  home- 
circle;  for  he  became  a  wonderful  inspiration  to 
the  young  people  of  the  Church.  It  has  never 
been  estimated  how  much  good  even  one  intelli- 
gent, thoroughly-consecrated  young  man  can  do 
in  influencing  and  holding  to  the  right  other  young 
people  of  less  well-established  principles. 

During  the  summer  an  event  occurred  which, 
throughout  his  whole  life,  served  to  bind  him  to 
the  home  Church;  that  is,  he  was  licensed  to 
preach.  It  occurred  in  this  wise:  At  a  meeting 
of  the  Church  officiary,  the  pastor  had  presented 
his  name,  and  the  necessary  papers  were  prepared 
Which  gave  him  an  accredited  right  to  preach  the 
gospel,  his  mother  knowing  nothing  at  the  time 
of  the  intention. 

When  his  father  returned  from  this  meeting, 
he  went  at  once  to  the  kitchen  where  she  was  at 
work,  and  thinking  to  surprise  her  said,  "Mother, 
you  must  have  a  little  extra  for  dinner ;  the  preacher 
will  dine  with  us."  And  she,  taking  the  matter 
seriously — indeed,  knowing  no  reason  why  she 
should  not — replied,  scarcely  looking  up,  "Well, 


152  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

catch  me  one  of  those  plump  chickens  out  at  the 
barn."  Willing  to  humor  the  joke,  John  went  out 
to  the  barn,  and  soon  a  chicken  lay  quivering  in 
a  vessel  on  the  table.  Leaving  the  dressing  to 
Ruth,  Rachel  slipped  on  a  fresh  apron,  and  went 
in  for  a  word  of  greeting  with  the  guest.  Greatly 
to  her  surprise  no  one  was  about. 

"They  have  gone  out  on  the  farm  to  discuss 
the  growing  crops  and  stock."  So  saying  to  her- 
self, she  went  out  to  the  kitchen,  and  soon  an 
appetizing  dinner  was  spread.  In  response  to  the 
dinner-call,  her  husband,  with  Asbury  and  the  rest 
of  the  family,  promptly  presented  themselves. 

"Why,  where  is  the  preacher?"  asked  Rachel, 
looking  about. 

"Here!"  and  John  Stevenson  laid  his  sun- 
browned  hand  upon  the  broad  shoulders  of  his 
first-born. 

Happy  mother!  Though  for  more  than  a  year 
she  had  known  this  was  to  be,  yet  the  announce- 
ment of  the  finality  thrilled  her  unaccountably. 
He  was  near  her  when  his  father  bore  the  news, 
and  she  bent  forward  with  a  kiss,  saying,  "Having 
put  your  hands  to  the  plow,  see  to  it  that  with 
you  there  shall  be  no  turning  back." 

The  words  seemed  prophetic.  Years  after, 
when  the  way  was  especially  rough,  the  remem- 


A  SOPRANO  153 

brance  of  this  home  scene  and  his  mother's  words 
held  him  closely  to  his  work. 


Richard  Newcomb  found  little  to  interest  him 
with  Louise  away.  In  a  private  talk  with  his 
father,  he  learned  that  the  financial  outlook  had 
not  improved,  and  that  unless  something  unfore- 
seen should  occur,  the  inevitable  must  soon  be 
faced.  Mr.  Newcomb,  a  victim  of  that  strange 
cowardice  that  often  affects  men  of  his  stamp,  had 
found  it  impossible  to  acquaint  his  family  with  the 
threatened  disaster;  and  Richard,  knowing  it  all, 
looked  with  a  bitterness  akin  to  anger  upon  the 
luxuries  on  every  side.  For  upon  his  return,  he 
found  preparations  were  being  made  on  a  lavish 
scale  for  Marie's  wedding,  which  was  to  occur 
in  the  early  July,  to  allow  of  a  western  and  moun- 
tain tour. 

Her  betrothed  held  a  good  position  in  his 
father's  bank,  and  there  was  no  reason  why 
the  wedding  should  be  longer  delayed.  So,  at  the 
appointed  time,  amid  a  great  deal  of  eclat,  Marie 
went  out  from  her  father's  home. 

The  Stevensons  were  among  the  invited  guests, 
but  only  Asbury  and  Ruth  were  present.  These 
returned  with  glowing  accounts  of  the  elegance  of 


154  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

the  lunch,  the  richness  of  the  bride's  trousseau, 
and  the  value  of  the  presents,  among  the  last  being 
a  deed  from  Mr.  Newcdmb  for  one  of  the  hand- 
somest residences  in  the  town. 

After  the  departure  of  the  bridal  party,  Richard, 
too,  took  a  western  train,  carefully  instructed  by 
his  father,  who  assured  him  that  upon  the  value 
of  some  western  investments  depended  freedom 
from  disaster.  But  before  he  went,  a  long  letter 
bore  to  Louise  an  account  of  the  wedding,  and 
assurance  of  his  undying  love. 

***** 

In  a  large  city,  not  far  from  -the  steady  plash 
of  ocean's  wave,  on  a  lovely  June  Sabbath,  a 
young  girl  awaited  with  a  beating  heart  the  hour 
for  service  in  the  great  aristocratic  stone  church 
which  faced  one  of  the  loveliest  avenues  in  that 
great  city.  One  does  not  need  to  be  told  that 
this  is  our  young  friend  Louise.  She  had  known 
before  coming  that  Emma's  home  was  one  of  lux- 
ury, and  that  the  church  in  which  she  was  to  sing 
was  one  of  the  best  in  the  city;  yet,  country  raised 
as  she  had  been,  she  had  not  dreamed  of  such 
magnificence.  The  rich  mellow  light  stole  in  and 
was  filtered  through  the  translucent  mosaic  of  the 
windows.  The  very  echo  of  her  footfall,  as  she 
had  glided  up  the  aisle,  had  been  caught  and  held 


A  SOPRANO  155 

imprisoned  in  the  soft,  yielding  plush  of  the  car- 
pet. The  pews,  indeed  every  appointment  of  the 
church,  betokened  luxury  and  wealth. 

Could  she  hope  to  satisfy  so  critical  an  audi- 
ence as  worshiped  there? 

Emma  was  sure  that  she  could,  yet  Louise  had 
never  in  her  life  been  self-confident,  and  it  was 
little  wonder  that  she  trembled  in  anticipation  of 
the  ordeal. 

She  had  taken  her  place  early,  and  as  the  audi- 
ence gathered,  she  saw  more  than  one  curious 
glance  towards  the  new  soprano.  The  great  organ 
pealed  forth  its  most  sonorous  melody,  then  died 
away  into  a  gentle  accompaniment.  She  was 
about  to  sing.  The  book  she  held  was  open  at 
that  matchless  solo,  "I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth."  With  the  first  note  of  the  organ  had  gone 
up  a  whispered  prayer.  For  answer  came,  with 
wonderful  distinctness,  a  vision  of  home  and  the 
sweet  home  faith  of  her  parents,  and  of  the  plain 
home  church  where  she  had  knelt  and  received 
knowledge  of  sins  forgiven.  Ah  yes;  she  knew  of 
a  truth  what  she  was  about  to  sing,  and  without  a 
falter  the  clear  young  voice  took  up  the  refrain, 
and  bore  it  aloft,  and  sang  it  so  feelingly  that  the 
audience,  with  a  first  gesture  of  surprise,  settled 
itself  to  simple  enjoyment.  She  had  wonl 


156  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

As  she  sat  down,  the  tremulous  plume  on  Mrs. 
De  Manderville's  bonnet  nodded  by  far  too  vig- 
orously to  suit  the  usual  calm  poise  of  that  lady, 
as  she  whispered  to  Mrs.  Millionaire,  just  at  elbow 
touch  with  her,  "A  wonderful  voice;  yes,  a  won- 
derful voice!" 

"Yes,  and  a  wonderful  amount  of  heart  too," 
Mrs.  Millionaire  had  telegraphed  back,  and  if  any 
one  had  a  right  to  recognize  this  last-named  qual- 
ity, certainly  it  was  this  same  lady ;  for  a  great  many 
of  the  poor  of  her  city  and  the  interests  of  her 
Church  accused  her  of  a  like  possession,  and 
blessed  the  thousands  that  accompanied  it. 

Louise  had  expected  on  coming  that  with 
Emma's  or  her  mother's  help  she  would  secure  a 
good  boarding-house;  but  this  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ward  would  not  allow.  Their  house  was  large  and 
roomy,  they  said,  and  to  allow  Emma's  friend  to 
seek  a  home  elsewhere  could  not  be  thought  of. 
So,  throughout  all  the  long,  delightsome  days  of 
that  summer,  Louise  was  an  inmate  of  this  luxuri- 
ous home.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  came 
to  know  the  meaning  of  the  word  "leisure;"  but 
her  industrious  soul  could  not  brook  the  enforced 
idleness.  So  she  talked  with  Mrs.  Ward  about 
securing  a  class  of  music  pupils.  Now  the  Wards, 
though  among  the  most  wealthy  and  cultured  of 


A  SOPRANO  157 

the  great  congregation  which  gathered  in  the  aris- 
tocratic stone  church,  and  with  a  little  touch  of 
perhaps  excusable  pride  could  look  back  on  several 
generations  of  ancestors  possessing  like  qualities, 
yet  no  dwellers  in  cottage  or  country  farm  were 
ever  more  sensible,  nor  held  more  exalted  notions 
of  the  true  dignity  of  labor,  and  instead  of  dis- 
couraging Louise,  rejoiced  in  her  disposition  to 
work.  Mrs.  Ward  -went  at  once  to  Mrs.  Millionaire 
about  the  matter,  and  very  soon  Louise  had  a  good, 
paying  class. 

Nor  did  this  young  Christian  fail  to  identify 
herself  with  the  active  work  of  the  Church.  She 
found  that  this  particular  Church,  luxurious  though 
it  was,  undertook  and  carried  on  much  practical 
Christian  work.  Under  the  especial  fostering  care 
of  Mrs.  Millionaire  was  a  band  of  young  girls  who, 
even  so  many  years  ago  as  that,  made  for  their 
special  object  the  study  of  the  great  work  of  foreign 
missions  and  the  raising  of  funds  for  the  same. 
Into  this,  Louise  entered  with  all  her  heart.  Years 
ago  her  interest  had  been  awakened  by  letters  from 
the  girl-wife  of  a  missionary.  With  such  a  foun- 
dation, she  developed  such  an  intelligent  interest 
that  Mrs.  Millionaire  learned  to  depend  more  and 
more  upon  her.  A  passing  glance  at  this  lady  may 
not  be  out  of  place. 


158  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Though  her  purse  and  bank  account  were  alike 
heavy,  yet  her  re'al  wealth  lay  in  her  active,  clear 
brain,  her  philanthropic  nature,  and  her  true  con- 
secration to  her  Master's  cause.  She  had  been  for 
years  (this  was  before  the  era  of  separate  mission- 
ary organizations  in  each  denomination)  a  valued 
manager  in  the  Woman's  Union  Missionary  So- 
ciety, and  of  her  great  wealth  she  held  herself  to 
be  but  a  steward.  She  felt  that  her  best  brain- 
work  must  be  done  in  using  this  for  the  advance- 
ment of  Christ's  kingdom,  and  was  never  happier 
than  when  she  found  a  young,  enthusiastic  per- 
son who  evinced  an  interest  in  these  matters  that 
lay  so  near  her  heart.  Little  wonder  she  seized 
upon  and  grew  to  love  the  bright-faced,  earnest 
young  soprano. 

Thus  the  summer  passed  happily.  Her  sing- 
ing gave  great  satisfaction,  and  her  class  of  music 
pupils  gave  her  full  employment. 

The  Ward  family  consisted  of  a  brother  and 
sister  younger  than  Emma,  besides  a  married 
daughter,  a  Mrs.  Herron,  the  mother  of  two  sweet 
little  children.  These  lived  in  an  elegant  home  in 
the  same  block.  But  mother  and  children  were 
often  at  the  paternal  home. 

From  Emma  she  learned  that  Mr.  Herron  was 
a  lawyer,  his  father,  Judge  Herron,  being  one  of 


FLOSSIE  159 

the  most  highly  and  favorably  known  men  in  the 
State. 

Of  course,  Louise  had  no  wish  to  intrude  into 
the  privacy  of  home  affairs,  but  in  an  intangible 
and  indefinable  manner  it  was  borne  in  upon  her 
that  there  was  something  wrong  with  this  home 
that  should  have  been  so  happy.  The  young  wife 
would  at  times  remain  for  days  in  her  father's 
home,  shut  in  her  own  room.  If  seen,  her  eyes 
were  red  with  weeping. 

Once,  as  Emma  was  driving  her  about  the 
city,  upon  one  of  the  fashionable  streets,  the  eye 
of  Louise  was  caught  by  a  large  and  beautiful 
building. 

Upon  inquiring  the  use  or  name  of  the  struc- 
ture, Emma  responded,  with  more  bitterness  than 
Louise  had  ever  seen  her  manifest,  "The  devil's 
gateway." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say.  It  is  a  fashionable  club- 
house, and  there  Tom  Herron  imbibes  the  demon 
that  is  killing  my  sister.  Yes,  I  believe  it  will  kill 
her!" 

Louise  was  silent.  Could  young  Herron  be  a 
common  drunkard? 

Emma  continued:  "O,  I  hate  it!  I  hate  it! 
hate  it!  I  hate  everything  that  wine  touches.  I 


i6o  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

would  as  soon  marry  an  Asiatic  leper  as  a  man 
who  takes  a  single  glass." 

Why  did  Louise  start?  Why  did  her  heart 
sink  so  suddenly?  Ah,  but  Richard!  It  was  all 
false !  He  had  never  drunk !  She  would  lay  down 
her  life  on  that  certainty!  Still,  the  vehement 
words  of  Emma  rankled  in  her  heart. 

This  question  had  always  seemed  so  far  off, 
so  remote,  so  associated  with  people  in  another 
world  from  her  own.  She  thought  of  her  good 
father,  of  her  brothers,  and  rejoiced  that  they 
were  safe;  but  could  it  be  possible  that  this  ser- 
pent could  wind  its  sinuous  way  into  a  Christian 
home  as  it  surely  had  into  the  Wards'  ? 

Perhaps  a  month  passed,  and  the  shadows 
seemed  almost  gone  from  pretty  Mrs.  Herron's 
face,  when,  one  night,  Louise  was  awakened  by 
a  noise  at  the  street  door. 

"O,  let  me  in!     Do  let  me  in,  quick!" 

"It  is  Lucy's  voice,"  said  Emma,  springing  up 
to  go  to  the  door.  Her  father  was  before  her,  and 
in  a  moment  the  trembling,  weeping  woman,  this 
daughter  of  wealth,  entered,  herself  half  clad,  and 
with  sweet  Baby  Flossie  in  her  arms  and  Master 
Harry  by  her  side;  these  two  in  their  night- 
clothes,  as  she  had  snatched  them  from  their  cot. 

There  was  no  attempt  now  to  hide  the  family 


FLOSSIE  161 

skeleton.  Lucy  told  them  that  for  weeks,  as  in- 
deed they  had  known,  her  husband  had  been  sober 
and  repentant.  As  usual,  he  had  made  many 
promises  of  reform;  but  O,  the  dreadful  appe- 
tite! How  like  a  caged  wild  beast!  "An  hour 
ago,"  she  continued,  "a  cab  brought  him  home 
from  the  club,  wild,  beside  himself  with  frenzy, 
threatening  to  kill  both  himself  and  me;  and  O, 
I  was  sure  he  would  [at  another  time  he  would 
have  laid  down  his  life  for  this  woman],  when  I 
fled  through  the  door  with  the  children." 

Just  then  there  was  a  scramble  at  the  door. 
Louise  drew  back  in  horror  as  a  wild-eyed,  reeling 
man,  revolver  in  hand,  entered.  Could  this  be 
the  elegant  Mr.  Herron,  usually  the  marvel  of 
good  breeding?  Yes,  having  missed  his  wife,  and 
dimly  realizing  in  his  frenzy  that  she  must  have 
gone  to  her  father's,  he  had,  in  his  drunken  fury, 
followed  her.  Before  any  one  could  know  or  guess 
his  design — indeed,  it  all  occurred  in  less  time 
than  it  has  taken  to  record  it — he  aimed  the 
weapon  at  his  wife,  who,  upon  his  entrance,  had 
stood  stock  still,  with  Flossie  in  her  arms;  then, 
placing  the  muzzle  to  his  own  heart,  fired,  and 
fell  forward  dead. 

Mrs.  Herron,  too,  lay  upon  the  floor;  but 
whether  killed  or  not,  not  one  knew  in  that  awful 

IX 


i6s  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

hour.  '  Emma  was  the  only  one  who  retained  her 
self-possession,  and  she  stooped  to  take,  from 
the  arms  so  tightly  clasping  her,  little  Flossie, 
when  she  suddenly  cried  out :  "God  help  us ! 
Flossie  is  killed!" 

It  was  true.  The  bullet  intended  for  his  wife 
had  in  an  instant  stilled  the  infant  life,  but  the 
mother  was  unhurt.  Hers  was  the  harder  fate, 
to  awaken  to  a  knowledge  of  what  had  occurred. 
Words  can  not  picture  the  woe  and  desolation  of 
that  hour. 

Soon  the  bleeding  body  of  the  self-murdered 
man  was  borne  to  the  home  of  his  father,  but  a 
few  blocks  away.  The  young  wife  and  mother, 
in  a  darkened  room,  moaned  in  the  wildest  delir- 
ium, and  sweet  Baby  Flossie  lay  a  mute  sacrifice 
upon  the  altar  of  strong  drink. 

Later,  as  Louise,  with  a  heartache  she  had 
never  before  known,  sang  the  sad  chant  over  the 
little  murdered  victim,  she  said  down  in  her  heart: 
"Yes,  Emma  is  right;  I,  too,  hate  it!  hate  it! 
hate  it!  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  in  all  my  life 
with  any  one  at  all  connected  with  this  horrible 
evil." 

Ah,  Louise!  It  is  well  for  you  that  Mother 
Nature  gave  you,  from  out  her  rich  storehouse, 
a  will  so  strong  that  had  you  lived  in  an  earlier 


F^ossm  163 

day  you  could  have  stood  unflinchingly,  if  duty 
so  demanded,  amid  the  pile  of  lighted  fagots,  else 
in  the  heavy  ordeal  of  the  future  you  had  not 
been  able  to  abide  by  those  words. 

When  Louise  had .  gone  for  the  summer  to 
Emma's  home,  it  was  with  the  confident  expec- 
tation of  spending  the  last  two  weeks  at  home; 
but  in  the  coming  of  the  sudden  catastrophe'  new 
qualities  of  heart  were  developed.  The  stricken 
family  came,  in  after  years,  to  look  back  upon 
those  dreadful  days  and  say,  "How  could  we 
have  lived  if  it  had  not  been  for  Louise?" 

She  had  that  rare  faculty  that  instinctively  sees 
and  does  the  right  thing.  Her  helpfulness  was 
not  that  obtrusive,  bustling  kind,  which  annoys 
while  it  helps;  but,  in  her  gentleness,  she  it  was 
who  could  best  soothe,  and  to  Mrs.  Ward  she 
came  to  be  a  tower  of  strength. 

Poor  Mrs.  Herron  lay  for  days  in  delirium, 
and  then  settled  down  into  a  stony,  tearless 
apathy,  from  which  nothing  would  arouse  her. 
Her  friends  feared  insanity. 

One  day,  as  Louise  sat  in  the  music-room,  she 
saw  her  glide  down  into  the  room  beyond,  and 
throw  herself  upon  the  spot  where  little  Flossie's 
coffin  had  stood.  Her  attitude  betokened  extreme 
and  hopeless  dejection. 


164  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Shall  I  do  it?"  whispered  Louise  to  herself. 
"I  can  but  try,"  and  seating  herself  at  the  piano, 
her  clear,  rich  voice  rang  out: 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

Tenderly  came  the  words: 

"  Leave,  O  leave  me  not  alone ! 
Still  support  and  comfort  me." 

Could  it  be  possible?  Yes,  the  heartbroken 
woman  was  sobbing. 

In  an  instant,  Louise  was  with  her,  pouring 
forth  words  of  comfort,  and  gradually  she  was 
won  back  to  an  interest  in  life  by  the  sweet  power 
of  Christian  song. 


It  was  with  sorrowing  hearts  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ward  watched  the  train  as  in  the  early 
September  it  bore  Louise  and  Emma  back  to 
school. 

They  arrived  a  few  hours  before  the  train 
which  was  to  bring  Asbury.  How  vividly  Louise 
recalled  the  time  when,  a  year  ago,  she  had  come 
as  a  stranger.  Now  it  seemed  everybody  knew 
her.  Grave  seniors  called  out,  "All  hail!"  Pro- 
fessors gave  warm  greetings,  and  in  the  gladness 


FLOSSIE  165 

of  her  welcome  the  pangs  of  homesickness,  that 
she  had  felt  at  not  being  able  to  see  the  home- 
folks,  melted  away.  And  then  came  Asbury,  big, 
brown  Asbury,  fresh  from  the  farm.  Louise 
thought  he  had  never  looked  so  handsome,  he  of 
the  broad  shoulders,  and  countenance  as  free  from 
guile  as  her  own. 

Then  there  were  the  innumerable  questions  to 
be  asked. 

"Yes,  father  and  mother  are  well.  Father  not 
very  strong,  though." 

Ruth?  She  and  Edward  have  gone1  back  to 
the  academy.  Ruth  was  taller  than  her  mother, 
and  Edward  was  almost  as  tall  as  his  father,  and 
as  fond  of  books  as  ever.  Yes,  the  new  house 
would  be  finished  in  a  short  time. 

O  yes;  Marie  and  her  husband  had  just  got- 
ten back,  and  settled  down  to  elegant  house- 
keeping. 

Therese  had  a  French  music-teacher,  who 
squinted,  wore  glasses,  and,  rumor  said,  made 
love  to  his  pupils,  Therese  in  particular. 

Mr.  Newcomb  was  said  to  be  growing  richer; 
some  western  speculations  had  proven  especially 
good.  "But  I  would  rather  have  our  own  father 
and  mother,"  said  Asbury,  "rich  as  they  are  in 
their  good  qualities,  than  the  wealth  of  a  nabob." 


166  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

All  this,  and  more,  Asbury  poured  into  the  ears 
of  his  sister. 

She  had  yet  one  surprise  before  settling  down 
to  study,  and  that  was  the  sudden  arrival  of  Rich- 
ard, who  had  decided  to  stop  on  his  way  back  to 
his  college. 

How  full  of  joy  the  hours  were!  How  full  of 
plans  for  the  future — that  future  which  seemed 
at  this  juncture  unusually  bright;  for  those 
"western  investments"  of  his  father  had  turned 
out  better  than  had  been  feared.  Mr.  Newcomb 
had  contrived  to  have  a  well-written-up  "local" 
concerning  the  same  in  the  city  papers,  reading 
which,  more1  than  one  said,  "Newcomb  will  pull 
through  yet."  "A  loss  of  fortune  may  mean  much 
to  the  elderly,"  Richard  reasoned;  "but  I  shall 
soon  have  my  profession — and  Louise,"  he  added, 
softly. 

So,  full  of  hope  and  good  cheer,  the  lovers 
parted  for  the  year. 


XIV 
Therese — Bankruptcy 

TEAVING  the  students  to  become  adjusted  to 
I—*  another  year's  work,  we  again  turn  to  the 
home-life  of  the  two  families.  Some  of  the  news 
so  briefly  epitomized  by  Asbury  deserves  more 
than  passing  mention.  The  year  on  the  farm  had 
been  reasonably  successful,  and  while  the  col- 
legiate course  abroad  and  the  academic  one  at 
home  had  entailed  extra  expense  above  what  each 
had  deposited  from  his  or  her  "college  fund,"  yet 
the  growing  family  made  such  an  imperative  de- 
mand for  more  room  that  Rachel  and  Ruth  saw, 
with  extreme  satisfaction,  the  lumber  arrive  that 
represented  two  good  front  rooms— one  with  a 
bay  window  for  Ruth's  flowers,  and  a  dining- 
room,  where  the  reunited  family  should  gather  the 
next  summer,  and  two  greatly-needed  sunny 
bedrooms;  and  in  a  few  days  the  welcome  noise 
of  saws  and  hammers  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
country  air. 

Ruth  and  Edward  were  again  in  the  academy. 
Ruth  was  now,  as  Asbury  had  said,  taller  than 
167 


1 68  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

her  mother.  It  seemed  startling  how  she  had 
shot  up  to  womanhood.  From  her  earliest  child- 
hood she  had  been  of  a  quiet  and  loving  disposi- 
tion. The  busy,  hard-working  life  the  Steven- 
sons  led  had  a  tendency  in  itself  to  throw  each 
child  on  its  own  resources,  and  particularly  the 
care  of  the  younger  children  upon  the  older. 
Was  a  little  brain  puzzled  over  a  lesson?  None 
so  patient,  so  ready  to  help,  as  Ruth;  indeed, 
none  so  capable;  for  she  had  the  gift  of  making 
another  understand  whatever  was  plain  to  her 
own  mind.  Since  Louise  and  Asbury  had  gone, 
she  had  become  the  family  reader,  and  many  an 
evening  was  made  enjoyable  as  her  low,  well- 
modulated  voice  read  from  the  current  literature 
in  which  the  family  were  interested;  for  though 
the  old  house  had  remained  small,  the  library  had 
grown  with  the  family,  until  now  it  was  of  really 
respectable  dimensions,  and  each  book  showed 
marks  of  frequent  reading.  There  was  one  work 
in  the  collection  which  marked  an  epoch  in  the 
life  of  Edward,  who,  the  family  laughingly  insisted, 
had  gone  plant-mad.  It  all  began  in  a  little  para- 
graph which  had  caught  his  eye  in  the  early 
spring,  which,  in  an  entertaining  way,  told  its 
young  readers  the  pleasures  of  seed-knowledge, 
suggesting  that  some  seeds  be  placed  to  soak, 


THERESE — BANKRUPTCY  169 

and  the  result  watche'd.  Edward  followed  the  sug- 
gestion, and  for  a  time  the  various  cups  and  sau- 
cers that  sat  around  holding  sprouting  seeds  were 
a  trial  to  his  mother  and  Ruth.  From  this 
simple  beginning  he  had  become  really  well  versed 
in  the  subject  of  plant-life. 

There  was  also  a  volume  on  mineralogy, 
which  had  guided  in  the  gathering  of  quite  a 
valuable  collection  of  geological  specimens. 

Fiction  was  not  lacking  in  this  home  library; 
but  this  was  selected  with  the  greatest  care,  and 
from  the  best  authors.  It  was  held  to  have  a 
proper  place  in  the  family,  perhaps  in  the  ratio 
of  sweetmeats  to  the  staples  of  the  table. 

Perhaps  the  reader  asks,  "How  did  this  plain, 
hard-working  man  and  woman  come  to  have  such 
rare  taste  and  judgment  in  literature  and  the 
children  such  fondness  for  it?"  Does  it  seem 
unreasonable?  Had  Rachel  herself  been  ques- 
tioned, she  would  have  insisted  that  it  was  all  the 
direct  outcome  of  those  first  quiet  evenings,  when 
she  and  her  young  husband  had  read  together  by 
the  blazing  fire,  and  that  their  eccentric  friend 
of  the  camp-ground  had  builded  better  than  he 
knew.  Then  there  had  been  present  in  all  that 
they  read  a  quiet  sermon,  pleading  for  higher  edu- 
cation, though  of  this  they  had  scarcely  been 


170  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

aware,  a  sort  of  undercurrent,  which  bore  them 
most  surely  on  till  they  had  been  led  to  plan  for 
their  children's  introduction  into  the  fascinating 
fields  to  which  knowledge  is  the  gateway. 


It  is  high  time  we  were  becoming  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  younger  children  of  this  house- 
hold. Edward  was  like,  and  yet  unlike,  Asbury. 
There  had  never  been  a  time  when  it  was  not  the 
latter's  delight  to  throw  aside  his  book  and  help  his 
father  in  harvesting  a  load  of  hay  or  reaping  a 
field  of  wheat;  but  it  early  became  evident  that 
Edward  had  no  such  desires.  He  did  his  tasks 
conscientiously,  but  there  was  no  pleasure  to  him 
in  the  work. 

When  a  task  was  given  him,  he  hurriedly  fin- 
ished it  to  get  off  with  a  book,  and  in  some  quiet 
spot,  perhaps  the  haymow,  he  would  lie  for  hours, 
oblivious  of  everything  else.  In  this  way  he  fol- 
lowed the  conquering  Alexander  around  the 
world,  and  read  of  the  triumphs  of  Cyrus.  How 
he  reveled  in  Irving's  "Conquest  of  Grenada," 
dreaming  by  day,  if  not  by  night,  of  old  Moorish 
castles  and  buried  treasures,  or  became  a  living 
companion  *of  Rip  Van  Winkle  and  Ichabod 
Crane ! 


THBRESE — BANKRUPTCY  171 

John  often  asked  Rachel  what  they  would  do 
with  the  farm  when  the  boys  seemed  to  care  more 
for  books  than  plowing.  "But  you  will  be  fa- 
ther's right-hand  man,"  he  would  wind  up  by  say- 
ing, as  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  sunburnt,  honest 
face  of  the  young  John,  who  now  proudly  made 
a  "hand"  by  the  side  of  his  father. 


"Mother,"  said  Ruth  one  evening,  when,  upon 
her  return  from  school,  she  had  donned  a  work- 
apron  and  was  helping  about  the  evening  meal, 
"you  have  no  idea  how  silly  some  of  the  girls 
are  about  Monsieur  Les  Page,  the  French  music- 
master;  and  Therese — why,  I  believe  Therese 
actually  imagines  herself  madly  in  love  with  him." 

"Impossible !"  replied  her  mother.  "Why,  she 
knows  nothing  of  his  past  life.  •  Besides,  he  is  so 
much  older  than  she;  nearly  old  enough  for  her 
father." 

"Well,  all  that  may  be  true,  but  she  talks  of 
him  constantly;  and,  what  is  more,  I  am  sure 
there  is  a  sort  of  clandestine  correspondence  be- 
tween them." 

"O,  surely  not!  Therese  is  young  and  fool- 
ish, I  know.  Her  mind  is  filled  with  false  ideas, 
and  she  doubtless  has  her  'dreams' — the  result  of 


172  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

the  world  of  unreal  and  morbid  fiction  in  which 
she  has  lived;  but  I  do  not  believe  a  Newcomb 
would  stoop  to  anything  dishonorable." 

Ruth  smiled  rather  incredulously,  and  contin- 
ued: "Well,  only  ye'sterday,  Therese  came  from 
her  music  lesson  quite  excited,  and  showed  me 
a  closely-written  note  from  the  monsieur,  which 
she  would  allow  no  one  but  me  to  see,  and  no 
one  to  read,  saying  though,  rather  triumphantly: 
'And  Edith  Lancaster  thinks  she  is  the  profes- 
sor's favorite.  O,  if  she  could  only  read  this !' " 

A  shade  of  questioning  anxiety  crossed  Mrs. 
Stevenson's  face.  "No,"  she  said,  softly  and 
sadly  to  herself,  "I  would  not  dare."  A  wave  of 
remembrance  of  the  old  Lynton  days  had  swept 
over  her.  Should  she  go  to  Margaret  with  a 
word  of  warning?  No;  Margaret  would  not 
brook  it.  Each  woman  had  chosen  her  line  of 
action  in  regard  to  her  own  family,  and  each  must 
abide  by  the  result.  Besides,  after  all,  while  there 
might  be  foolishness,  there  might  be'  really  no 
danger;  for  it  was  getting  to  be  an  open  secret 
that  the  professor  was  no  longer  giving  satisfac- 
tion to  the  authorities  of  the  academy,  and  his 
speedy  relief  from  duty  might  soon  be  expected. 

The  next  morning,  about  an  hour  after  Ruth 
and  Edward  had  started  for  the  academy,  Mrs. 


THKRESS — BANKRUPTCY  173 

Stevenson  caught  sight  of  Ruth  coming  hurriedly 
up  the  lane.  Her  first  thought  was  of  an  acci- 
dent to  Edward,  and  hastily  running  to  meet  her, 
she  aske'd:  "Edward?  Where  is  he?" 

"O  mother!"  Ruth  almost  gasped,  "Therese 
and  Monsieur  Les  Page  have  gone!" 

"Gone?"  echoed  her  mother.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

Soon  she  had  learned  the  meager  little  there 
was  to  learn.  Therese  had  gone,  the  evening  be- 
fore, ostensibly  to  spend  the  night  with  a  friend. 
Not  returning  the  next  morning,  her  family 
thought  nothing  of  it,  supposing  she  had  gone 
directly  to  the  academy.  Early  in  the  morning, 
however,  a  startling  rumor  became  current  that 
Monsieur  Les  Page  had  quietly  left  the  city  dur- 
ing the  night.  This  in  itself  would  not  have  been 
at  all  strange  had  not  rumor  further  said  that 
he  was  accompanied  by  a  lady  closely  veiled.  Not 
one  of  the  Newcomb  family  would  have  ever 
thought  of  connecting  this  "veiled  lady"  with  their 
own  Therese;  but,  going  to  her  room  for  some- 
thing, they  found  it  in  disorder,  and,  dropped  on 
the  floor  by  the  dresser,  lay  the  tell-tale  note 
from  the  monsieur — the  one  which  Ruth  Steven- 
son had  seen,  but  not  read — in  which  that  base 
man  had  indulged  in  lofty  panegyrics  concerning 


174  RICHARD  NKWCOMB 

his  love  for  her,  and  wound  up  by  urging  her  to 
fly  that  very  night  with  him. 

And  she,  poor,  foolish  child,  scarcely  in  the 
dawn  of  womanhood,  a  child  of  luxury,  tenderly 
cared  for  since  her  birth,  had  gone  out  from  her 
home  at  the  bidding  of  an  adventurer,  who  had 
proven  his  baseness  by  taking  advantage  of  his 
position  to  win  the  love  of  a  romance-fed  young 
girl !  Not  that  he  valued  this  love,  but  the  wealth 
of  Mr.  Newcomb  more. 

To  attempt  to  picture  the  sorrow,  the  chagrin, 
of  the  family  of  Therese  would  be  useless.  The 
stricken  mother,  in  an  agony  of  sorrow,  entered 
her  own  room,  closed  the  shutters,  shut  out  the 
sunlight  and  friends,  and  with  closed  lips,  essayed 
to  bear  it  alone. 

For  a  week  or  more,  Mr.  Newcomb  was  in  al- 
most constant  telegraphic  communication  with 
Richard,  who,  in  the  impetuosity  of  youth,  had 
flung  himself  into  the  search  for  the  missing 
couple.  But  however  vigorous  the  search,  and 
however  skilled  the  detectives  employed,  it  really 
seemed  as  if  the  earth  had  opened  and  swallowed 
them  up. 

Fully  a  month  after  their  departure  there  came 
to  Mrs.  Newcomb  the  first  ray  of  light  that  had 
penetrated  the  gloom.  It  was  a  letter  from 


THERESE — BANKRUPTCY  175 

Therese,  written  from  that  great  human  ocean, 
New  York  City.  She  wrote  of  their  marriage — 
a  theatrically-glowing  letter,  such  as  one  of  her 
cheap  heroines  might  have  written — and  of  her 
great  happiness,  and  closed  with  the  modest 
request  that  her  father  allow  her  patrimony! 
This  latter  was,  of  course,  a  suggestion  of  the 
monsieur's,  who  was  clever  enough  to  know  what 
would  best  help  his  cause ;  and  he  also  sent  with 
the  letter  the  legal  certificate  of  that  ceremony 
which  had  forever  linked  the  life  of  young, 
thoughtless  Therese  Newcomb  with  his  own  older 
and  sin-stained  one.  But  thus  linked,  we  must 
leave  them  for  a  time. 


Enough  cause,  and  to  spare,  for  anxiety  and 
sorrow ;  but  by  no  means  was  this  all  that  tugged, 
these  days,  at  the  weary  brain  and  heartstrings 
of  Mr.  Newcomb.  From  the  earliest  pages  of  this 
story  of  homes,  the  business  ability  of  this  man 
has  been  duly  observed.  It  has  been  seen,  too, 
that  for  years  he'  had  not  been  content  with  the 
slower,  though  sure,  gains  of  the  great  mills  which 
bore  his  name,  but  that  he  had  speculated  much — 
now  in  eastern,  now  in  western  stocks;  now  he 
became  the  controlling  stockholder  in  a  great  rail- 


176  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

way  scheme,  or  in  a  mine,  whose  output  promised 
fabulous  returns.  It  has  been  further  seen  that 
the  outside  world  (which  is  never,  after  all,  far 
wrong  in  its  judgments,  but  which,  with  its  keen 
eye,  takes  one's  correct  measure,  mentally, 
morally,  and  financially,  no  matter  how  closely 
we  hug  to  our  hearts  the  delusion  that  we  are 
known  only  to  ourselves)  has  for  some  time  been 
shaking  its  head  doubtfully  over  many  of  these 
same  speculations.  It  now  becomes  proper  for 
us  to  inquire  more  closely  into  the  true  con- 
dition of  affairs.  It  goes  without  saying  that 
most,  if  not  all,  of  this  speculation  was  upon  bor- 
rowed capital,  which,  as  long  as  the  returns  were 
on  the  right  side  of  the  ledger,  was  all  right. 

But  there  came  a  change.  Stocks  that  he  had 
excepted  to  rise,  suddenly  fell,  and  kept  falling, 
involving  great  losses.  These  he  tried  hard  to 
keep  from  the  prying  world,  but  in  this  succeeded 
poorly.  The  "western  investment,"  the  occasion 
of  Richard's  western  journey  the  summer  before, 
was  a  promising  mine.  This  for  a  time  yielded 
well.  But  somehow  he  missed  the  hour  when 
he  might  have  sold  and  gained.  During  these 
months  of  anxious  struggle,  the  mills  continued 
prosperous;  but  in  comparison  to  the  larger 
amounts  involved,  this  was  as  nothing.  It  seemed 


THERESE — BANKRUPTCY  177 

on  every  hand  that  the  toils  were  tightening,  and 
promising  ventures  melted  into  thin  air. 

It  may  be — indeed,  it  is  more  than  likely — that 
the  sad  fate  of  his  blithe,  winsome  young  daugh- 
ter was  the  last  touch  needed  wholly  to  weaken 
the  strong  heart,  and  to  cause  the  nerveless  hand 
to  sink  to  his  side,  and  the  lips  to  form  the  hope- 
less words:  "It  is  no  use  to  struggle  further.  I 
may  as  well  yield  now." 

At  any  rate,  in  just  three  months  from  the  de- 
parture of  Therese  he  wrote  Richard : 

"  In  another  week  all  will  be  over,  and  the  world  will 
know  me  as  a  bankrupt.  God  knows,  I  have  tried  to  avert 
it,  and  tried  in  vain.  For  myself  I  do  not  care;  but  for 
the  heartache  this  will  cause  others,  I  would,  I  believe, 
give  my  life  to  ease. 

"I  have  secured  to  you  certain  stock  (I  did  this  over 
a  year  ago),  which  I  trust  will  be  sufficient  to  enable  you 
to  complete  the  course  of  study  you  have  begun. 

"You  will  now  see,  more  than  you  did  when  I  first 
urged  it,  how  necessary  for  you  to  arm  yourself  with  an 
education  aud  a  profession.  Years  ago,  when  this  trouble 
first  threatened,  I  secured  the  home  to  your  mother;  in- 
deed, it  was  really  hers  from  her  father,  as  was  the  home 
I  gave  Marie.  What  will  be  the  fate  of  poor  Therese, 
when  Les  Page  learns  that  she  is  penniless,  I  do  not 
know. 

"I  can  struggle  no  further.  I  must  lay  the  burden 
down.  Do  not  come  home.  Bear  this  in  mind :  You  are 
young  and  strong.  It  is  my  greatest  comfort  to-day  to 
believe  that  you  can  succeed  where  I  have  failed. 

12  "  FATHER." 


178  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

A  week  later  there  was  an  item  in  the  great 
city  papers  which  announced  the  failure  of  Will- 
iam Newcomb,  of  Burrtonville,  owner  of  large  mill- 
ing interests.  But  few  who  glanced  over  it  gave 
it  a  thought.  "A  failure — a  mere  episode!  Men 
failed  every  day."  But  not  so  with  the  local  press 
of  Burrtonville.  His  enterprise  was  enlarged 
upon,  and  the  regret  expressed  was  sincere;  for 
no  one  man  had  contributed  more  to  the  growth 
of  their  city  than  he  who  to-day  stood  before  the 
world,  as  he  thought,  disgraced. 

Satisfaction  was  felt  on  all  sides  that  the  beau- 
tiful home,  so  long  one  of  the  local  centers  of 
hospitality,  was  the  property  of  Mrs.  Newcomb. 
All  else,  Mr.  Newcomb  had  honorably  placed 
in  the  hands  of  the  creditors. 

Mr.  Newcomb,  after  the  news  had  become 
public  and  the  first  stab  of  disgrace  was  past,  ex- 
perienced a  feeling  of  relief.  The  effects  of  a 
blow  are  often  easier  to  be  borne  than  the  dread, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  erring  Therese  and 
two  other  facts,  William  Newcomb  might  have 
been  happier  than  he  had  been  for  years.  One  of 
these  was,  that  his  wife  had  sunk  beneath  the 
blow.  It  had  come  upon  her  suddenly,  and  fol- 
lowing her  daughter's  ill-assorted  marriage,  it  had 
proven  more  than  she  could  bear.  In  a  heavily- 


THERESE — BANKRUPTCY  179 

curtained  upper  chamber  she  was  fighting  the 
battle  of  life  and  death. 

The  other  reason?  Ah!  when  it  obtruded  it- 
self into  the  sick-room  or  followed  the  sorrowing 
man  to  his  couch  (and  when,  during  the  past  years, 
had  it  not?)  involuntarily  he  cast  his  eyes  in  the 
direction  of  the  farmhouse,  where  this"  very  night 
he  knew  a  peaceful  family  had  gathered,  with.no 
other  feeling  in  their  hearts  than  generous  com- 
passion for  the  misfortunes  of  an  old-time  friend 
and  neighbor. 

Read  on,  sweet-voiced  Ruth!  Unconsciously 
to  you,  you  are  the  central  figure  in  a  sweet  home 
group.  Father  sits  contentedly  in  his  easy-chair; 
the  knitting  in  mother's  hands  does  not  hinder  the 
close  attention  she  always  gives  when  you  read. 
The  brothers  are  grouped  near  the  plain  old 
table.  Read  on ;  it  will  be  many  a  day  before  this 
same  group  will  gather  so  contentedly  again. 


XV 

John,   the  Younger 

IT  was  a  blustering  wintry  day.  A  heavy  snow 
had  lain  for  weeks  on  the  ground ;  then  had  come 
a  warm  wind,  a  few  days  of  sunshine,  and  it  had 
melted,  save  a  few  patches  on  the  hillsides.  This 
had  been  followed  by  another  freeze,  and  now,  this 
morning,  the  winter  wind  blew  across  the  empty 
meadows  and  whistled  noisily  about  the  farmhouse. 

Ruth  and  Edward  were  each  at  the  academy ; 
Rose  was  at  the  country  school.  John,  the  young 
prototype  of  his  father,  had  begged  to  remain  at 
home,  asserting  that  Madam  Blanche,  a  portly 
Berkshire  dame,  needed  his  assistance  in  moving 
her  large  family  of  babyv  Berkshires  into  better 
quarters. 

After  the  morning  chores,  Rachel  went,  where 
she  was  soon  joined  by  her  husband,  to  look  over 
again  those  wonderful  rooms,  now  ready  for  occu- 
pancy, and  into  which  they  expected  to  move  next 
week. 

"How    Louise    will    love    this    sunny    room !" 

Rachel  was  saying.    "She  can  share  it  with  Ruth; 

180 


JOHN,  THE  YOUNGER  181 

and  if  she  brings  her  friend  Miss  Ward  home  with 
her,  we  can  at  least  make  her  comfortable." 

"Dear  me !"  said  she,  in  a  reminiscent  mood, 
"how  sad  was  that  terrible  tragedy  in  the  Ward 
home!" 

"Yes,"  replied  her  husband,  who  was  with  her, 
"and  think  of  Newcomb !  We  have  so  much  to  be 
thankful  for,  in  that  sorrow  has  never  yet  knocked 
at  our  door." 

Ah !  but  dear  hearts,  have  ye  not  read : 

"Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall; 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary?" 

Care,  such  as  you  have  never  known,  is  already 
close  at  hand. 

Just  then,  Rachel  passed  the  window.  "Why, 
father,  who  are  those  strangers  near  the  barn?" 

Looking  out,  John  saw  two  men  walking  leis- 
urely about,  taking  a  careful  survey  of  the  premises 
and  belongings. 

"Probably  some  men  looking  for  stock.  I  '11 
walk  out  and  meet  them." 

So  saying,  he  took  his  hat  and  started  to  meet 
the  strangers,  and  Rachel  being  left  alone  busied 
herself  about  the  dinner. 

But  the  strangers,  whoever  they  were,  seemed 
to  have  no  business  with  Mr.  Stevenson ;  for  by  the 


182  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

time  he  reached  the  barn  they  were  letting  down 
the  pasture  bars  and  going  toward  the  woodland 
beyond. 

"Father,"  said  younger  John  impetuously,  as 
they  surrounded  the  supper-table,  "who  were  those 
two  men  who  were  walking  over  the  farm  this 
morning,  acting  as  if  they  owned  it" 

"I  am  sorry  I  can't  tell  you,"  responded  his 
father.  "I  supposed  they  were  stock  men,  and 
went  out  to  see  them,  but  they  had  gone  over 
toward  the  woods." 

"Well,  they  came  along  where  I  was  at  work 
penning  up  Madam  Blanche,  and  asked  me  a  lot 
of  questions  they  had  no  business  to.  I  guess  they 
didn't  get  much  out  of  me." 

"I  hope  you  remembered  to  be  polite,"  inter- 
posed his  mother. 

"I  guess  I  was  polite  enough;  but  when  the 
thin  chap  with  spectacles  asked  me  if  there  was 
any  mortgage  on  the  place,  I  told  him  no;  and  if 
there  was,  I  guessed  we  could  pay  it." 

Ruth  and  her  mother  were  yet  busied  with  the 
after-supper  work  when  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  from  tfie  kitchen  Rachel  could  see  the 
visitors  were  none  other  than  the  two  strangers  of 
the  morning. 

A  forboding  of  evil,  she  scarcely  knew  what, 


JOHN,  THE  YOUNGER  183 

seized  her,  and  both  she  and  Ruth  hastened  that 
they  might  know  the  import  of  the  strangers'  visit. 

No  need,  for  in  a  few  minutes  her  husband, 
white  and  trembling,  appeared  at  the  door  and  re- 
quired her  presence.  Ruth  mutely  followed. 

"Mother,"  said  John  Stevenson,  with  uncon- 
scious, rugged  dignity,  "this  gentleman,"  indicating 
a  florid,  rather  large  man,  evidently  ill  at  ease,  "is 
Mr.  Hardin,  one  of  Mr.  Newcomb's  creditors. 
This,"  indicating  evidently  the  "thin  chap  with 
spectacles,"  "is  his  lawyer,  Mr.  Nevins.  Did  you 
not,  years  ago,  take  my  message  to  William  New- 
comb  that  I  could  not  longer  remain  as  security 
with  him  on  the  note^" 

"Certainly,"  replied  Rachel.  "He  consented  to 
the  change,  and  assured  me  the  name  would  be  re- 
moved at  once." 

The  lawyer  took  from  his  pocket  a  leather  book, 
and  from  its  folds  took  out  a  yellow  bit  of  paper. 
With  a  blur  over  his  eyes,  John  Stevenson  read  the 
fateful  words: 

,  "I  promise  to  pay  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars with  interest  from  date,"  etc.  Signed.  There 
was  the  pen  flourish  of  Mr.  Newcomb,  and  the  un- 
mistakable, cramped,  plain  "John  Stevenson;"  and 
the  flourished  "William  Newcomb"  was  as  worth- 
less as  the  yellow  paper  on  which  it  was  written! 


184  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

A  moment  of  choking  stillness  followed.  The 
old  clock  on  the  high  wooden  mantel  ticked  on 
loudly  and  bravely,  as  if  it  would  fain  avert  the 
coming  disaster. 

The  hickory  fire  that  glowed  in  the  great  fire- 
place snapped  and  sputtered,  but  the  living  actors 
in  this  home  tragedy  stood  or  sat  like  figures  of 
carved  marble. 

John  Stevenson  looked  in  mute  appeal  into  the 
faces  of  the  two  men,  both  of  whom  were  fidgeting 
and  moving  around  in  an  uneasy  manner ;  but  there 
was  no  pity,  no  relenting.  They  were  there  to 
have  their  "pound  of  flesh." 

"There  must  be  some  awful  mistake,"  almost 
gasped  Rachel.  "Certainly,  William  Newcomb 
could  not  be  guilty  of  this  awful  crime.  He  told 
me,  when  I  took  the  message,  that  the  note  was 
then  in  a  bank,  placed  as  collateral ;  that  he  would 
redeem  it  at  once,  by  depositing  in  its  stead  certain 
stock;  and  upon  my  second  visit,  he  assured  me 
it  had  been  done.  O  that  friendship  had  not  blinded 
me,  and  I  had  asked  myself  to  see  the  note  de- 
stroyed !" 

Ruth,  with  clenched  hands,  was  crying  pite- 
ously  as  she  leaned  with  one  arm  over  her  father's 
chair.  Edward  stood  in  silent  wonder;  but  no  one 
had  noticed  the  fiery  young  John,  who  suddenly 


JOHN,  THE  YOUNGER  185 

sprang  to  his  feet,  and  with  eyes  blazing  like  coals 
and  a  face  with  the  pallor  of  death,  save  for  the 
rugged  tan,  placed  himself  in  front  of  his  father 
and  said: 

"Father,  what  does  all  this  mean?  What  right 
have  these  men,"  and  boy  as  he  was  they  were 
forced  to  wince  at  the  scorn  in  his  voice,  "to  come 
here  and  annoy  you  ?" 

"It  means,  my  son,"  and  the  father's  voice 
seemed  as  if  the  heartache  of  a  lifetime  was 
crowded  into  a  second,  "that  years  ago,  for  old 
friendship's  sake,  I  became  security  to  William 
Newcomb  for  a  sum  of  money  which,  with  the  in- 
terest, will  take  every  foot  of  ground  belonging 
to  the  farm  to  pay.  He  assured  me  at  the  time 
he  would  only  need  my  signature  for  a  year,  and 
afterwards  assured  your  mother  that  it  was  paid." 

"O  the  scoundrel !  But  it  is  n't  right,  it  is  n't 
just.  Think  how  they  have  lived,  while  we  have 
worked  hard  day  after  day!  Go!"  and  he  turned 
in  youthful  fury  to  the  two  men,  and  flung  wide 
open  the  outside  door.  "Let  the  Newcomb's  pay 
their  own  debts." 

The  men  arose  to  leave,  glad  to  escape  from  an 
interview  so  embarrassing,  preferring  to  leave  their 
cause  to  the  surer  officers  of  the  law. 

Both    the    father    and    mother   were    so    over- 


i86  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

whelmed  with  this  calamity  that  they  scarcely 
realized  John's  brusque  speech,  and  were  only  top 
glad  to  be  left  alone. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked;  but  talking  brought 
little  relief,  only  serving  to  emphasize  the  direful 
fact  more  plainly  that  William  Newcomb  had  made 
a  promise  to  Rachel  which  he  had  not  fulfilled. 

"O !"  moaned  Rachel,  "if  I  only  had  not  trusted 
him — had  insisted  on  seeing  for  myself  that  the 
note  was  paid  as  he  said!" 

And  now  for  this,  her  mistake,  they  were  to  be 
homeless.  Carefully  she  recalled  every  incident  of 
her  call  at  the  Newcomb  office.  Mr.  Newcomb 
had  told  her  again,  what  she  already  knew,  that 
"the  money  thus  secured  had  been  used  as  an  in- 
vestment in  the  rapidly-changing  financial  scenes 
in  the  early  days  of  the  war;  it  had  brought  good 
returns,  and  had  been  invested  again  and  again." 
Yes,  he  had  admitted  it  had  been  an  act  of  busi- 
ness carelessness  that  the  original  note  had  not 
been  paid.  As  she  desired,  he  "would  write  a 
check  that  very  day." 

And  she  had  believed  him !  For  herself  she  did 
not  care  so  much;  but  there  were  the  years  of 
hardships  borne  by  her  husband.  He  had  never 
been  strong  since  the  hour  ot  the  accident.  No, 
he  could  never  make  his  way  again. 


JOHN,  THE  YOUNGER  187 

The  afternoon  wore  away,  night  came;  though 
they  retired,  neither  could  sleep.  There  were  the 
children!  Rachel  sobbed  as  she  thought  of  them. 
It  was  true,  each  had  his  own  college  fund.  How 
she  blessed  the  writer  of  the  stray  paragraph  which 
had  contained  the  suggestion!  Yet  unless  it  was 
annually  added  to,  it  would  prove  insufficient. 
Would  they  finally  have  to  give  up  and  come  home  ? 

Following  these  sad  reflections  came  the 
thought :  "Asbury  is  the  Lord's  own.  He  will  care 
for  him  someway." 

Ah !  if  that  is  true  of  Asbury,  why  not  of  Louise, 
of  Ruth,  of  each  one?  God's  own  are  not  all  min- 
isters. He  will  have  his  servants  in  all  walks  of 
life,  and  the  first  prayer  that  had  crossed  her  lips, 
now  rose  for  sustaining  grace  to  bear  this  trial  if 
it  came. 

God  is  always  waiting,  longing  to  comfort  if 
asked,  and  even  as  she  prayed,  peace  came. 

They  were  all  the  Lord's.  He  was  pledged  to 
care  for  them.  The  word,  "I  will  never  leave  thee 
nor  forsake  thee,"  still  stood,  and  David's  experi- 
ence as  recorded,  "I  have  been  young,  and  now  am 
old;  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken, 
nor  his  seed  begging  bread,"  might  be  hers  if  she 
would  grasp  it.  "Commit  thy  way  unto  the  Lord; 
trust  also  in  him."  Aye !  she  had  done  this.  Now 


i88  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

came  the  harder  act  of  faith,  to  believe  that  He 
would  bring  to  pass  that  which  was  best. 

Reaching  out  her  hand — ah!  it  had  long  been 
wrinkled  and  hard — she  clasped  the  still  browner 
one  of  her  husband,  and  whispered :  "John,  be  com- 
forted. God  reigns,  and  he  will  care  for  us." 

"O !"  groaned  John,  "it  was  our  own  foolish 
act,  and  God  can  not  save  us  from  the  effects  of 
such.  We  should  not  have  allowed  the  years  to 
pass  without  knowing  that  what  Newcomb  had 
promised  was  done." 

"But  God  can  and  will  help  us  bear  it,"  she 
urged,  and  so  comforted,  after  a  weary  while,  they 
slept. 

Before  the  old  farm-horn  had  blown  the  dinner 
summons  the  following  day,  two  'things  had  hap- 
pened. One  was  an  interview  on  the  part  of  John 
Stevenson  with  the  man  who  had  so  cruelly 
wronged  him,  where  he  learned  the  truth  of  his 
worst  fears.  Yet  he  had  come  away  with  a  queer 
feeling  akin  to  pity  for  the  wretched  man;  for  he 
said  to  himself,  "I  can  stand  before  the  world  an 
honest,  if  it  must  be,  a  penniless  man,  and  there  is 
a  world  of  satisfaction  in  a  clear  conscience." 

And  it  was  true,  William  Newcomb  was  an  ob- 
ject of  pity ;  for  over  and  over  again  he  had  learned 
the  gruesome,  unwelcome  lesson  that  the  way  of 


JOHN,  THE  YOUNGKR  189 

the  transgressor  is  always  hard.  For  months  he 
had  been  cowering  before  the  hour  when  the  Ste- 
vensons  must  know  of  his  dishonesty. 

At  first  he  had  not  dreamed  of  a  dishonest  act. 
He  had  fully  expected  to  cancel  the  note,  even 
before  Rachel's  visit,  and  certainly  to  fulfill  his 
promise  to  her ;  but  even  then  the  web  of  entangle- 
ments had  begun  to  enwrap  him,  and  as  fate  would 
have  it,  on  the  very  day  of  her  call,  news  reached 
him  of  the  sudden  decline  in  price  of  grain,  which 
he  had  contracted  for  in  large  quantities.  "Well, 
the  very  next  week  I  will  do  it,"  was  the  promise 
be  made  his  conscience  when  his  last  available 
check  was  given,  not  to  free  the  farm-folk,  but 
other  more  clamorous  creditors. 

But  affairs  were  no  better  "next  week,"  and  so 
he  had  lived  on,  the  note  becoming  the  property  of 
a  bank,  whose  managers  were  wise  to  recognize 
the  value  of  the  plain,  cramped  signature.  During 
the  last  five  years  he  had  not  entered  upon  a  specu- 
lation without  promising  himself  to  redeem  the 
hated  note  with  the  margin,  but  it  had  been  impos- 
sible. Thus  often  do  the  results  of  our  actions 
widely  exceed  our  intentions. 

During  the  interview,  he  had  sat  cowed  and 
shrunken.  Where  was  the  old-time  alertness,  the 
ready  joke,  the  hearty  good-fellowship?  Yes,  such 


190  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

are  to  be  pitied  "who  sow  to  the  wind,  for  of  the 
wind  they  shall  reap  destruction."  Thinking  this, 
John  Stevenson  left  him  to  his  own  sad  thoughts. 

How  misspent  now  seemed  the  years  that  had 
been  given  solely  to  the  getting  of  wealth!  How 
fatal  the  mistake  that  had  made  him  merely  a 
"source  of  supply  for  his  family!"  He  groaned 
aloud  as  thoughts  of  his  children  intruded.  Could 
he  hope,  dare  he  hope,  for  Richard,  handsome 
Richard,  though  possessing  talents  that  ought  to 
make  him  a  leader  among  his  fellows  ?  He  ac- 
knowledged now,  in  those  hours  of  bitterness,  that 
the  whole  bent  of  his  boy's  training  had  been  such 
it  would  be  nigh  impossible  for  'him  to  resist  the 
temptations  with  which  he  was  surrounded. 

And  Therese,  blithe,  headstrong  Therese,  there 
could  be  nothing  but  sorrow  and  failure  in  her  life. 
And  Marie?  Perhaps  here  was  a  grain  of  comfort. 

No!  He  frowned.  Who  could  feel  pride  in  a 
vapid  society  woman?  And  to  crown  his  sorrow, 
upstairs  lay  the  mother,  his  beautiful  Margaret, 
tossing  in  delirium,  not  yet  conscious  of  the  loss 
that  had  come  to  their  old-time  friends.  We  re- 
peat, he  was  to  be  pitied. 

When  John  Stevenson  arrived  home  after  the 
interview,  he  learned  of  the  second  event  we  have 
mentioned.  A  legal  notice  had  been  served,  de- 


JOHN,  THE  YOUNGER  191 

manding  the  immediate  payment  of  the  note  and 
the  interest  from  date. 

Why  go  over  the  details  of  those  trying  days? 
Rachel's  strength  of  character  had  never  been 
tested  till  now.  With  her  own  hand  she  penned  a 
letter  bearing  the  terrible  news  to  Asbury  and 
Louise,  telling  them  to  remain  at  college  for  the 
present,  that  their  presence  at  home  would  not  help. 

To  her  husband  she  became  a  tower  of  strength. 
When  he  would  have  sunk,  she  comforted  him  by 
reminding  him  that  the  family  were  well-nigh 
grown;  but  somehow,  food  and  shelter  and  the 
equally  pressing  needs  of  an  education  would  be 
supplied. 

No  one  guessed  the  tempest  that  raged  in  the 
heart  of  sixteen-year-old  John.  Of  all  the  children, 
none  loved  the  farm  as  he.  While  Asbury  had 
dreamed  of  a  pulpit,  and  Edward  had  followed  a 
conquering  hero  around  the  world,  John  had  found 
his  study  out  under  the  blue  sky.  He  knew  every 
foot  of  ground,  and  could  give  the  name  and  his- 
tory of  each  and  every  animal  about  the  place.  A 
flock  of  sheep  "ba-a-a-ed"  at  the  pasture  bars  each 
night ;  to  each  one  he  had  given  a  name,  and  it  had 
been  with  impatience  he  had  listened  to  the  state- 
ment "that  all  sheep  looked  alike."  To  give  up 
the  farm,  and  under  such  circumstances!  With 


192  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

swelling  heart  he  determined  to  see  Mr.  Newcomb 
himself.  "Father's  too  easy,"  the  children  had 
often  said. 

Soon  chance  favored  his  purpose;  for  he  was 
sent  to  Burrtonville  on  an  errand,  and  once  there 
lost  no  time  in  making  his  way  to  the  Newcomb 
residence.  The  angry  blood  surged  through  his 
veins  as  he  trod  the  beautiful,  well-kept  lawn,  and 
beheld  the  elegant  luxury  of  the  home.  A  servant 
answered  the  bell,  and  went  to  call  Mr.  Newcomb. 
"No,  he  could  not  be  seen." 

"But  tell  him  I  must  see  him,"  said  John. 
Again  word  was  brought  back  that  he  could  not 
be  seen. 

"Where  is  he?"  asked  John. 

"In  his  wife's  room,"  replied  the  servant.  John 
walked  out  as  if  leaving,  and  the  servant  went  back 
to  her  work. 

He  well  knew  each  room  of  the  great  house,  and 
little  thinking  of  the  sick  one,  he  turned  and  sought 
the  room  where  he  knew  Mr.  Newcomb  was.  Soon 
his  low  knock  summoned  the  surprised  man  to  the 
door. 


XVI 

A  Visit — A  Result — Leaving  the  Farm 

"  I  HAD  to  see  you,"  explained  John,  who  swal- 
1      lowed  back  the  involuntary  pity  which  rose 
as  he  caught  sight  of  the  haggard  man. 

"It  is  a  part  of  my  punishment/'  the  tired  man 
said  to  himself,  as  he  wearily  led  the  way  to  a 
room  where,  since  his  trouble,  he  had  kept  some  of 
his  papers. 

"Well?"  he  said  interrogatively,  as  the  door 
closed  behind  them. 

As  the  boy  had  gone  about  the  farm  yesterday, 
and  as  he  had  ridden  in  this  evening,  he  had  longed 
to  meet  the  author  of  their  trouble  face  to  face. 
How  he  would  upbraid  him !  Ah !  he  had  felt  as  if 
he  only  lacked  opportunity  to  meet  him ;  but  as  he 
beheld  the  pinched  face,  somehow  the  invectives 
died  on  his  lips. 

Yet  a  glance  upon  the  elegant  appointments  of 
the  room  recalled  him.  "He  ought  to  sell  this, 
part  with  every  comfort;  for  the  debt  was  his." 
All  this  passed  through  his  mind  almost  before  the 
echo  of  the  questioning  "well  ?"  had  died  away. 
13  i93 


194  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"I  came  to  ask,"  and  the  sunburned  face  of  this 
boy,  clad  in  his  working  clothes,  shone  with  the 
righteousness  of  his  request,  "if  you  would  do  noth- 
ing to  save  my  father  and  mother  from  being  home- 
less, all  for  friendship  to  you?" 

"I  would  gladly  do  it  if  I  could,  but  I  can  not," 
and  there  was  a  hopeless  ring  in  his  voice. 

"But  it  is  so  monstrous,  so  unjust,"  and  the 
boy's  face  flushed  at  the  thought.  "Can  you  sit 
here  in  this  home,  with  all  this  about  you?"  and 
he  swept  his  hand  to  indicate  the  luxurious  sur- 
roundings. "Can  you  allow  Marie  to  retain  her 
home,  and  see  my  father,  now  growing  old,  lose 
that  for  which  he  has  worked  through  these  long 
years,  for  you?" 

Mr.  Newcomb  was  silent,  then  said,  "  I  can  not 
control  Marie's  home.  Once  I  might;  not  now." 

"But  this  home,"  persisted  John,  "you  can  easily 
sell  it." 

Said  Mr.  Newcomb,  with  a  touch  of  impatience 
in  his  voice:  "Boy!  this  one  debt  for  which  your 
father  is  security  is  but  one  of  many.  If  I  would 
sell  this  home  and  all  its  belongings,  it  would  not 
pay  the  thousandth  part." 

Poor  John  began  to  realize  the  hopelessness  of 
his  appeal.  "But  surely  there  is  something  you 
can  do ;  something  left  of  all  your  great  property." 


REAVING  THE  FARM  195 

"Nothing;  all  is  in  the  hands  of  the  creditors." 
Then  he  half  started,  as  if  a  sudden  remembrance 
had  come  to  him. 

"Then,  Mr.  Newcomb,"  and  John  drew  himself 
up,  "I  call  you  to  remember  there  is  a  God,  and  he 
is  the  God  of  my  father  and  mother,"  and  with 
that  he  left  the  presence  of  the  man  who  had 
caused  so  much  trouble  in  his  home. 

The  youth  paused  for  a  moment  in  his  home- 
ward ride.  Before  him  stretched  the  loved  acres 
of  his  childhood's  home — his  no  longer.  Back  of 
him,  on  the  banks  of  the  Illinois,  towered  the  great 
mill,  which  had  been  such  a  source  of  wealth  to  its 
owner. 

"Well,  old  farm,  go  from  us  for  a  time  if  you 
will,  but  some  day  I  '11  win  you  back !  Yes,  and 
more,"  and,  through  the  not  unmanly  tears,  he 
looked  squarely  at  the  mill,  which  was  just  now 
being  lighted  by  the  evening  sun.  Then  touching 
Beauty  he  cantered  home. 

William  Newcomb  watched  the  boyish  figure  as 
it  recklessly  strode  down  the  graveled  walk. 

"Yes,  it  is  hard  for  them,"  he  said,  softly. 
"Could  I  buy  peace  of  conscience  if  I  gave  them 
the  deed  to  the  one  thing  left  me?  So  poor,  that 
the  hungry  creditors  did  not  care  to  bother  with  it. 
Those  acres  of  arid  waste  in  Arizona;  I  thought 


196  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

they  would  have  yielded  me  gold.  'T  was  but  an- 
other bubble.  At  any  rate,  they  shall  see  that  I 
have  done  all  that  I  could." 

So  saying  he  went  to  a  drawer,  drew  out  an 
envelope,  and,  with  a  few  strokes  of  the  pen,  made 
John  Stevenson  the  owner  of  a  tract  of  desert  land 
in  Arizona. 

Putting  it  into  an  envelope,  he  wrote  a  note  to 
John  Stevenson,  telling  him  he  hoped  that  in  the 
years  to  come  he  would  thing  differently  of  him. 

Just  then  a  servant  called  him  to  his  wife's  bed- 
side. 

She  was  dying! 

About  the  hour  that  the  Stevensons  received 
William  Newcomb's  communication,  they  also  re- 
ceived the  news  that  Margaret,  his  wife,  had  passed 
beyond  the  pale  of  human  praise  or  censure. 

"No,  it  is  worthless,  absolutely  worthless;  you 
may  as  well  toss  it  into  the  open  grate."  John 
Stevenson,  like  a  drowning  man  catching  at  a 
straw,  had  gone  to  a  lawyer,  asking  him  to  accept 
for  the  debt  the  deed  of  the  Western  land,  and 
received  for  reply  the  above  answer. 

With  a  heavy  heart  he  turned  to  leave.  Sud- 
denly a  sense  of  the  hopelessness  of  his  cause 
swept  over  him,  and  a  despair  he  had  not  known 
seized  him,  and  in  a  moment  the  worthless  paper, 


I/EAVING  THE  FARM  197 

which  had  brought  him  this  fresh  disappointment, 
lay  upon  the  smoldering  coals  of  the  grate. 

So  burdened  was  he  that  he  did  not  observe  that 
his  youngest  son,  who  had  accompanied  him,  as 
quickly  stooped,  and  removing  it  from  its  perilous 
position,  placed  it  in  his  own  pocket.  But  the  law- 
yer did,  and  smiled  at  the  boy's  independence  of 
action  as  well  as  at  the  shrewdness  displayed. 

Rachel  awaited  his  return,  and  read  the  result 
of  his  visit  in  his  face. 

It  was,  "We  must  find  another  home !"  In  after 
years  they  wondered  how  they  ever  lived  through 
the  trying  days. 

Added  to  the  thought  of  leaving  their  home  was 
the  pertinent  query,  Where  should  they  turn? 
What  should  they  do?  It  had  been  hard  to  make  a 
living  on  the  farm,  to  rent  one  seemed  a  doubtful 
experiment. 

It  was  found  that  while  they  would  lose  the 
farm,  they  would  be  able  to  keep  the  stock. 

These  it  was  decided  to  sell,  and  if  possible  get  a 
home  in  Burrtonville.  And  then,  how  should  they 
live?  This  question  both  Rachel  and  John  turned 
over  again  and  again  in  their  minds. 

Jerome  Mills  was  a  member  of  the  same  Church 
as  the  Stevensons,  and  was  the  grocer  in  Burrton- 
ville with  whom  the  family  had  always  dealt. 


198  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

He  was  possessed  of  a  great  longing  to  live  in 
the  country,  which  desire  became  intensified  by  the 
sight  of  golden  rolls  of  butter,  the  baskets  of  fresh 
eggs,  and  other  farm  produce,  which  Rachel  was 
wont  to  bring  in  each  week  in  exchange  for  gro- 
ceries. 

Hearing  from  Lawyer  Nevins  that  the  Steven- 
son farm  was  to  be  rented,  he  at  once  went  to  see 
if  they  could  not  make  a  trade. 

They  soon  arrived  at  a  conclusion.  The  stock, 
excepting  that  belonging  to  the  children,  should 
remain  on  the  farm,  the  property  of  Mr.  Mills, 
while  the  Stevensons  should  take  his  grocery  busi- 
ness and  rent  his  house — an  untried  venture;  still, 
it  might  prove  successful. 

John  Stevenson  was  not  a  man  to  delay  matters ; 
so  when  he  abandoned  all  hope,  he  at  once  made 
preparations  for  the  inevitable,  and  a  few  days  later 
two  large  wagons  stood  in  the  grassy  lane,  into 
which  the  household  effects  were  packed. 

Poor  Rachel!  But  a  month  ago,  with  a  light 
heart,  she  had  planned  to  move  into  the  new  rooms ; 
but  now  strangers  would  enjoy  the  comfort  she 
had  never  known!  Yet  it  was  not  for  these  she 
most  sorrowed.  Here,  in  the  great  kitchen,  at  the 
table,  the  merry  group  of  boys  and  girls  had  gath- 
ered and  spent  the  meal-time  in  laughter  and  repar- 


LEAVING  THE  FARM  199 

tee.  Here,  about  this  hearth,  her  little  children  had 
played.  In  that  little  bedroom,  Asbury  had  been 
converted.  But  why  call  up  the  past  ? 

Like  as  unto  the  Israelites  of  old  the  command 
had  come  to  go  forward,  she  could  trust  that  now, 
as  then,  there  would  be  a  pillar  of  fire  to  lead; 
so  without  a  tear  (for  her  husband's  sake),  brave 
Rachel  Stevenson  went  out  from  the  home  of  her 
early  wifehood  and  motherhood. 

All  were  ready  to  go;  but  the  boy  John  could 
nowhere  be  found. 

Guided  by  a  mother's  instinct,  Rachel  went  her- 
self to  the  barn,  and  there  in  the  manger  of  Beauty's 
stall,  with  his  arms  about  the  wondering  animal's 
neck,  poor  John  was  giving  way  to  the  wild  aban- 
donment of  grief. 

The  sight  moved  his  mother  as  nothing  else, 
and,  putting  her  arms  about  him,  they  wept  to- 
gether. But  time  moves  inexorably  on  and  pays 
little  heed  to  tears,  and  the  pawing  teams  were 
ready  to  start;  so  at  last  they  rose  to  go,  when 
John,  every  inch  a  hero,  even  in  his  blue  shirt  and 
cotton  pants,  said,  "I  '11  have  it  back,  every  acre  of 
it — every  acre  of  it!" 

A  few  days  after  they  had  gotten  settled,  they 
were  surprised  by  a  call  from  the  director  of  what 
had  been  their  home-school.  He  soon  made  his 


200  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

errand  known.  It  was,  that  their  township  had 
requested  the  services  of  Ruth  to  teach  the  spring 
school.  This  young  lady  at  first  demurred  on  ac- 
count of  fancied  inability,  but  yielded,  and  erelong 
seemed  to  have  found  her  niche  in  the  plain  little 
schoolroom. 

Edward  remained  in  the  academy,  while  John 
found  enough  to  keep  him  busy  helping  his  father 
get  adjusted  to  the  new  work  of  the  store. 

Like  a  patient  mother-bird  that  sees  its  nest 
broken  and  despoiled,  yet  patiently  goes  to  work  to 
repair  the  breach,  so  this  other  mother  began  the 
work  of  building  a  new  home,  under  surroundings 
so  different  from  the  past. 

The  task  was  not  so  hard  after  all ;  for  had  they 
not  each  other?  And  it  was  with  genuine  sorrow 
that  they  thought  of  the  lonely  man  in  the  great 
house,  who  weeks  before  had  sadly  followed  his 
beautiful  Margaret  out  from  the  door  of  her  luxuri- 
ous home  to  the  stillness  of  the  grave. 

Richard  had  come  to  his  mother's  burial,  and 
after  coming  home  from  the  last  sad  rites,  he 
learned  for  the  first  time  of  the  Stevenson's  loss. 
He  was  shocked,  overwhelmed,  and  felt  this  more 
than  the  loss  of  his  father's  entire  fortune. 

How  could  Louise  forgive  this  ?  Would  not  the 
very  name  of  Newcomb  be  the  synonym  for  every- 


LEAVING  THK  FARM  201 

thing  despicable?  How  he  longed  in  the  few  days 
of  his  stay  to  go  to  the  farmhouse  and  express  his 
sympathy  and  sorrow,  but  he  durst  not!  He  re- 
solved, though,  as  it  seemed  best  for  him  to  finish 
his  collegiate  year,  that  on  his  return  he  would  stop 
at  the  university,  and  learn  his  fate  from  the  lips  of 
her  who,  now  that  such  sorrows  had  swept  in  on 
him,  seemed  all  that  was  left  of  life. 

His  heart — yes,  and  his  pride — mourned  for 
Therese;  for  she  had  been  his  favorite.  He  could 
have  borne  without  a  murmur  the  mere  loss  of 
property;  for  youth  is  strong,  brave,  and  hopeful. 
But  then  came  the  death  of  his  mother,  that  beau- 
tiful, gracious  being  whose  life  had  been  the  one 
question,  "What  will  make  my  children  most 
happy  ?" 

She  may  have  erred  in  answering  the  question ; 
but  kindness,  love,  and  gentleness  had  marked  her 
rule,  and  over  her  coffin,  Richard  first  tasted  the 
bitterness  of  sorrow. 

It  would  be  hard  to  depict  the  sorrow,  the  indig- 
nation, and  the  anxiety  which  both  Asbury  and 
Louise  carried  in  their  hearts  in  these  days. 

To  give  up  the  home,  the  fruit  of  honest  toil,  for 
another,  and  to  go  out  into  the  world  well-nigh 
penniless!  Imagination  refused  to  take  in  the 
thought  that  now,  at  this  very  time,  the  family  were 


2O2  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

leaving  the  old  home.  Each  felt  that  to  remain  in 
school  was  out  of  the  question.  If  they  were  home, 
surely  they  might  help  in  some  way.  This  they 
wrote. 

Promptly  came  the  message  from  father  and 
mother :  "The  one  bit  of  silver  lining  to  this  cloud 
is,  that  you  are  each  so  nearly  ready  for  your  life- 
work.  If  you  love  us,  stay  -where  you  are,  and 
make  the  most  of  each  day.  This  thought  will 
bear  us  up  as  nothing  else  will." 

The  wisdom  of  this  was  apparent.  But  they 
could  scarcely  study  harder  than  before;  for  they 
were  already  among  the  best  of  the  university. 

As  Louise  was  going  to  her  room  from  recita- 
tion one  day,  about  a  week  after  the  receipt  of  the 
news  from  home,  a  note  was  handed  to  her.  It 
read: 

"Louise, — I  have  been  to  my  mother's  burial. 
I  can  not  go  back  to  school  without  seeing  you. 
You  have  a  right  to  hate  our  very  name;  but  will 
you  not  see  me?  RICHARD." 

Louise  read,  wondering:  "Could  it  be?  His 
mother  dead,  and  he  in  town?  And  he  thinks  I 
blame  him.  Poor,  unhappy  Richard !  No !  What 
had  he  to  do  with  this?  Nothing."  And  with  a 
longing  to  look  into  his  face,  she  wrote: 

"DEAR  RICHARD, — Come." 


LEAVING  THE  FARM  203 

An  hour  later,  these  two,  the  current  of  whose 
lives  had  flown  together  since  childhood,  and  which 
in  these  later  years  had  been  indissolubly  knit  to- 
gether in  that  strange  tie,  stronger  than  death  itself, 
which,  for  lack  of  a  better  word,  we  call  "love," 
were  together. 

Richard  had  been  moved  deeper  than  he  knew 
by  the  sad  succession  of  events  of  the  past  few 
weeks,  and  it  was  no  unmanly  thing  that,  on  catch- 
ing sight  of  the  bright,  true  face  so  dear  to  him, 
and  just  now  radiant  with  the  divine  light  of  sym- 
pathy, he  should  sink  into  a  chair  and  weep  again, 
as  he  had  over  his  mother's  coffin. 

Then  began  the  divine  ministry  of  woman's  love 
to  bind  up  the  bruised  and  broken-hearted. 

Tenderly  she  drew  from  him  the  story  of  his 
mother's  death,  of  which  she  had  not  heard.  With 
tact  she  made  him  understand  that  she  imputed  no 
intentional  wrong  to  the  sorrowing  father,  who 
now  was  certainly  an  object  of  pity  to  the  most 
careless. 

With  a  hope  she  hardly  dared  feel,  she  pictured 
the  future  of  her  own  father  and  mother,  and  urged 
him  to  make  the  most  of  himself  by  making  the 
most  of  the  remaining  months  in  college. 

How  she  longed  to  ask  him  if  in  these  sorrows 
he  had  gone  to  the  great  Source  of  comfort!  But 


204  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

she  remembered  that  if  such  matters  were  not  act- 
ually scoffed  at,  they  were  held  with  indifference 
by  members  of  the  Newcomb  home. 

Well,  in  later  years,  he  should  learn  and  share 
her  own  sweet  faith ! 

Foolish  Louise!  A  thousand  unhappy  wives 
would  bear  testimony  to  the  futility  of  that  hope. 

Listening  to  her,  Richard  felt  his  dejection  slip- 
ping away.  Yes,  life  was  still  rich;  for  it  held 
Louise. 

He  told  her  how,  in  another  year,  he  would  enter 
a  law-office.  "And,  Louise,"  said  he,  "believe  me, 
my  first  care  shall  be  to  see  that  this  loss  of  yours 
shall  be  made  good." 

As  he  read  in  her  eyes  the  devotion  of  her  heart, 
a  great  sense  of  shame  swept  over  him  that  he  was 
not  more  worthy  of  her.  Looking  into  her  eyes, 
how  easy  seemed  the  right!  how  disgusting  the 
wrong ! 

He  was  not  going  until  a  late  evening  train. 
There  was  to  be  an  open-meeting  of  the  literary 
society  to  which  Louise  belonged,  and  to  change 
the  sad  drift  of  his  thoughts  she  insisted  that  he 
attend.  She  had  promised  a  song  for  the  occasion, 
and  for  more  than  a  week  had  been  practicing  the 
high,  warbling  notes  of  a  solo  in  a  new  popular 
opera.  Scarcely  had  the  last  note  died  away  when 


THE  FARM  205 

the  vigorous  prolonged  encore  gave  her  the  oppor- 
tunity she  had  coveted,  and  the  rich  clear  voice 
took  up  that  blessed  hymn  of  comfort  which  has 
soothed  so  many  sorrowing  ones,  "Come,  ye  dis- 
consolate." As  she  sang, 

"Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  heaven  can  not  heal," 

little  wonder  that  the  company  listened  in  awe  at  the 
pathos ;  for  with  every  note  there  was  a  prayer  that 
her  lover  might  test  this  truth  for  himself.  Sitting 
there,  unconscious  of  the  prayer,  Richard  resolved 
to  do  this  very  thing,  and  from  this  very  hour  to 
live  an  earnest  Christian  life.  Alas!  had  it  not 
been  for  Braceton ;  alas !  had  it  not  been  for  the 
inexorable  reaping  from  the  sowings  of  the  past. 


XVII 

Getting  Settled — Life  in  a  College  Club 

SPRINGTIME  had  come,  and  other  hands  than 
the  Stevensons'  were  sowing  the  home  acres. 
It  is  always  hard  for  a  man  late  in  life  to  change 
his  business.  It  was  doubly  so  for  John  Stevenson. 

Brought  up  on  a  farm,  spending  his  life  there,  in 
that  place  he  was  at  home ;  but  as  for  a  "store,"  he 
felt  out  of  place,  awkward,  having  scarcely  any 
adaptability  for  it.  But  something  had  to  be  done, 
and  this  had  seemed  to  be  the  "something"  that 
offered. 

If  this  were  true  of  himself,  it  was  hardly  so  with 
the  boys.  Edward  had  remained  in  the  academy, 
it  being  his  last  year ;  but  there  were  the  long  morn- 
ings and  evenings,  which  he  took  largely  to  famil- 
iarize himself  with  the  new  business,  and  gradually 
the  whole  of  the  book-keeping  fell  into  his  hands. 

John  became  in  this  new  business  his  father's 
most  valued  helper.  At  first  he  chafed  at  the 
confinement,  and  groaned  in  his  soul  as  he  longed 
to  be  on  the  farm  again.  But  he  soon  began  to 

develop  genuine  business  instinct,  and,  young  as  he 

206 


GETTING  SETTLED  207 

was,  his  father  learned  to  rely  upon  him  as  the  pur- 
chaser of  supplies.  Known  to  all  his  acquaintances 
as  a  man  of  sterling  honesty,  having  their  sympathy 
in  his  loss,  it  was  not  strange  that  customers  flocked 
to  the  new  venture,  and  that  erelong  the  mere  ques- 
tion of  an  honest  living  was  assured. 

Nor  did  the  wife  find  the  task  of  adjusting  her- 
self to  the  new  home  a  difficult  one.  It  will  be 
remembered,  the  coveted  new  rooms  at  the  farm- 
house had  been  unoccupied.  The  Mills'  home  was 
a  new  and  well-built  cottage,  with  much  more  room 
and  many  more  conveniences  than  she  had  known. 
"But,  alas!"  thought  both  she  and  her  husband,  "to 
live  in  a  home  that  is  not  our  own!" 

Yet  the  home-touches  were  not  long  in  assert- 
ing themselves,  nor  the  living-room  in  taking  on  a 
cozy  home-air.  There  were  two  good-sized  south- 
ern windows,  which,  before  many  months,  what 
with  hanging  vines  and  blooming  flowers,  were 
marvels  of  beauty.  Between  these  were  arranged 
the  shelves  for  books.  And  from  these,  their  old, 
worn  friends — the  books  of  the  years'  gathering — 
soon  greeted  them,  and  their  greeting  seemed  well- 
nigh  human.  Ah!  they  had  not  lost  all.  Indeed, 
though  everything  else  should  have  been  swept 
away,  the  past,  with  its  rich  associations,  was  for- 
ever theirs.  And  with  that  past,  indeed  one  of  its 


208  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

strongest  factors,  were  these  same  silent  friends, 
who  had  now  followed  them  into  the  uncertainties 
of  the  present. 

In  a  corner  of  the  room,  Edward's  individual 
tastes  asserted  themselves.  In  a  cabinet  of  his  own 
making,  with  a  plain  glass  front,  was  his  collection 
of  botanical  specimens.  One  more  deeply  skilled 
than  he  might  have  called  many  of  these  worthless ; 
but  in  their  broadening,  educating  influence  upon 
the  boy  himself,  in  the  sweet  spell  which  their  col- 
lecting had  thrown  over  him,  keeping  him  from 
possible  rude  associates,  and  in  opening  to  him  the 
riches  of  nature,  one  would  have  been  slow  to  pro- 
nounce the  most  insignificant  as  worthless. 

Accustomed  on  the  farm  to  much  "outside 
work,"  the  home-keeping  in  the  Mills'  home 
seemed  a  very  light  affair,  and  it  was  well ;  for  the 
years,  together  with  the  events  of  the  last  few 
months,  were  telling  plainly  on  the  strong  factor 
of  the  whole,  the  house-mother. 

As  for  the  college  students,  it  had  been  hard  for 
them  to  remain  at  their  post  amid  all  these  harrow- 
ing changes ;  but  the  home  commands  were  impera- 
tive. Yet  each  felt  something  must  be  done.  But 
what?  Asbury's  expenses  were  already  at  a  mini- 
mum, thanks  to  the  student  club  of  which  he  was 
a  member;  but  Louise,  with  Emma,  had  found 


IN  A  COLLEGE  CLUB  209 

a  delightfully  congenial  home,  which  had  opened  its 
doors  to  the  students,  and  where  she  had  remained 
during  her  entire  stay  in  the  college.  But  why 
should  she  not  try  Asbury's  plan  ?  That  which  she 
most  dreaded  was  the  losing  of  Emma's  sweet 
companionship;  for  without  the  slightest  need  for 
economy,  there  would  be  little  use  for  her  to  take 
any  discomfort  upon  herself. 

Among  the  worshipers  at  the  same  church  with 
Louise  was  a  very  tall,  angular  woman,  with  that 
peculiar  snappy  kind  of  black  eyes  which  seem  to 
be  continually  upon  the  lookout  'for  a  fault.  Her 
husband  had  grown  tired  of  life  years  before,  and 
left  her  with  the  care  of  a  large  family,  all  girls, 
and  a  bit  of  property  in  the  country.  She  had 
sold  her  country  property  and  invested  in  an  old, 
rambling  house  in  the  town,  whose  only  recommen- 
dation was  the  great  number  of  rooms  it  con- 
tained. She  had  hoped  to  earn  her  livelihood  in 
the  time-honored  way  of  keeping  boarders ;  but 
there  were  so  many  cheery  homes  open,  was  it  any 
wonder  the  students  passed  by  this  sharp-visaged 
woman  and  her  roomy  house?  Her  latest  am- 
bition had  been  to  organize  a  "girl's  club,"  whereby 
college  expenses  might  be  considerably  lessened 
for  girls  as  well  as  their  brothers.  Indeed,  at  the 
time  when  Louise  began  to  cast  about  for  a  plan 
14 


2io  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

to  economize,  a  small  club  of  the  kind  was  already 
in  operation. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  to  state  here  that, 
owing  to  the  wise  foresight  of  her  father  in  his 
plan  for  the  "college  fund,"  this  was  fortunately 
not  necessary,  yet,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  Louise 
went  on  a  tour  of  inspection,  feeling  very  grand 
and  self-sacrificing.  The  outlook  at  Mrs.  Hoy  son's 
(the  club  manager)  seemed  dreary  enough,  even 
for  the  most  pronounced  martyrdom;  but  this 
suited  her  present  mood  better  than  sunshine  and 
cheer,  and  as  she  might  have  signed  her  own 
death-warrant  she  made  the  arrangements  for  the 
change. 

There  remained  yet  one  task,  itself  of  no  small 
magnitude,  and  that  was  to  acquaint  Emma  with 
her  decision. 

That  evening  the  girls  were  sitting  in  their  cozy 
room,  apparently  busy  in  the  lessons  for  the  next 
day.  After  Louise  had  gotten  up  the  seventh  time 
to  punch. a  fire  that  was  already  glowing  brightly, 
and  had  walked  several  times  to  the  window  and 
beaten  a  tattoo  on  the  panes,  Emma  tossed  her 
book  aside  and  said :  "You  might  as  well  out  with 
it,  whatever  it  is.  Have  you,  in  a  sudden  gust 
of  passion,  murdered  some  one,  and  is  the  wraith 
making  you  uncomfortable  ?  Come,  unburden  your 


L,IFE  IN  A  COLLEGE  CLUB  211 

heart  to  the  one  that  loves  you."  Emma  had  struck 
a  mock-heroic  attitude,  and  seemed  to  be  listening 
intently  for  a  confession  she  expected  would  chill 
the  very  marrow  in  her  bones. 

Louise  smiled,  a  kind  of  wan  smile,  it  must  be 
admitted.  How  she  began  and  how  she  ended  she 
never  knew.  But  in  some  way  or  other  an  idea  of 
the  proposed  change  began  at  length  to  dawn  upon 
Emma,  and  really,  if  the  "marrow"  was  not  frozen 
as  she  had  expected,  she  was  quite  as  much  excited, 
as  if  such  an  event  had  really  occurred. 

"Can  it  be  possible/'  thought  she,  "that  the  old, 
sweet  companionship  is  to  be  broken  up?"  No, 
never;  and  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  Louise,  after 
her  excited  room-mate  had  taken  two  or  three  turns 
about  the  room,  she  stopped  squarely  in  front  of  her 
and  announced  her  intention  of  accompanying  her. 
A  swift  vision  of  the  plain,  meagerly-furnished 
room  she  had  just  secured  passed  rapidly  before 
her,  and  mentally  she  contrasted  it  with  the  luxuri- 
ous one  in  Emma's  own  home.  Then  there  was 
the  vinegarnish  Mrs.  Hoyson,  the  new  landlady. 
Louise  wearily  acknowledged  to  herself  that  in  all 
probability  herein  would  lie  the  greatest  trial  of  the 
new  life.  No,  Emma  must  not  make  this  sacrifice ; 
thus  much  she  said,  but  Emma  remained  firm. 

"Now  you  need  not  say  a  word ;  my  mind  is  fully 


212  RICHARD  NKWCOMB 

made  up.  Let  me  tell  you  something.  Do  you 
remember  last  summer,  at  one  of  the  meetings  of 
the  Missionary  Band,  Mrs.  Millionaire  was  urging 
us  to  exercise  self-denial  in  our  gifts,  showing  so 
plainly  that  the  Lord  took  a  special  delight  in  such 
giving?  I  remember  to  have  felt  a  sense  of  shame 
that  in  all  my  life  I  had  not  known  what  it  was 
really  to  do  without  something  I  wanted  in  order  to 
get  money  to  give.  Now  here  is  my  opportunity. 
I  will  go  with  you  to  the  club,  and  every  dollar  so 
saved  (and  I  will  keep  an  exact  account)  shall  go 
to  that  new  mission  in  the  interior  of  China.  Now 
it  is  settled.  You  are  not  to  have  a  monopoly  of 
heroics  on  self-sacrifice." 

And  so  it  was.  A  few  days  later  found  the 
friends  unpacking  their  "penates,"  as  in  school-girl 
fashion  they  styled  their  trunks,  and  a  few  other 
belongings,  in  one  of  the  grim,  bare  rooms  belong- 
ing to  Mrs.  Hoyson. 

A  square  of  rag-carpet  ornamented  the  floor  of 
this  room,  while  a  bed,  a  washstand,  a  plain  table, 
and  two  chairs  comprised  the  furniture.  The  win- 
dows were  small,  and  nearer  the  ceiling  than  the 
floor.  The  views  from  neither  were  inspiring.  In 
front,  some  busy  men,  in  a  cooper-shop,  kept  up 
a  rat-tat-tat  on  some  barrels  the  whole  day  long, 
while  from  the  rear  the  view  was  excellent  of  a 


IN   A   COI^BGB   Cl,UB  213 

cemetery  about  a  block  away.  Far  from  this  being 
an  occasion  of  worrying,  however,  it  became  the 
subject  of  many  an  odd  remark  from  Emma;  and 
notwithstanding  the  dreariness  of  the  place,  not  a 
day  passed  without  the  sound  of  happy  girlish 
laughter.  Looking  back  upon  their  college  lives  in 
after  years,  two  sober  women,  each  seriously  intent 
upon  performing  the  duties  with  which  their  lives 
became  singularly  full,  were  wont  to  smile  as  epi- 
sode after  episode  of  this  happy — supremely  funny 
— club-life  was  recalled. 

If  Mrs.  Hoyson  had  one  feature  predominant 
above  another,  that  feature  was  neatness.  Her 
white  aprons  were  always  smooth  and  glossy  in 
their  stiffness,  and  woe  to  the  unlucky  roomer  who 
left  things  "lying  around."  Emma  and  Louise  took 
turns  in  "straightening."  One  morning,  it  being 
Emma's  turn  (Louise  was  at  her  practice),  that 
young  lady  concluded  she  would  hurry  up  her  fire, 
and  took  some  oil  from  the  lamp  to  do  so.  Great 
was  her  dismay  to  find  a  large  oil-spot  on  the  floor. 
What  would  Mrs.  Hoyson  say  ?  Now,  Emma  really 
knew  nothing  of  housework,  and  as  she  stood  con- 
templating the  spot,  "Why  not  burn  it  off,"  some- 
thing seemed  to  suggest.  Well,  in  the  next  minute 
she  learned  a  thing  or  two  about  how  not  to  re- 
move a  grease  spot.  The  "fire"  was  promptly 


214  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

put  out,  but  not  until  the  girls  had  gathered  from 
the  different  rooms,  with  Mrs.  Hoyson,  grim  and 
severe,  at  their  lead.  Poor  Emma!  she  hardly 
knew  which  was  most  to  be  dreaded,  the  "O  my's" 
of  the  girls,  or  the  stony  displeasure  of  Mrs. 
Hoyson. 

The  plan  of  the  present  campaign  of  economics 
was,  that  there  should  be  one  of  their  number  who, 
in  her  turn,  should  do  the  purchasing  of  supplies, 
and  it  became  a  matter  of  rivalry  to  see  which 
could  bring  their  expenses  down  to  the  lowest  pos- 
sible figure,  and  yet  maintain  a  good  bill  of  fare. 
However,  it  became  tacitly  understood,  if  either 
of  these  points  was  to  be  sacrificed,  the  uncom- 
plaining latter  should  be  the  victim.  That  year, 
as  if  to  get  ready  for  such  emergencies,  nature  had 
sent  a  bountiful  crop  of  potatoes,  and  never  before 
had  either  Louise  or  Emma  dreamed  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  this  one  mealy,  jacketed  tuber. 

It  became  quite  an  experience  with  Emma  to  go, 
with  pencil  and  note-book  in  hand,  and  with  an  air 
of  importance,  make  the  -acquaintance  of  grocers 
and  butchers,  and  exchange  animated  remarks 
upon  the  lowest  possible  price  of  vegetables  or 
meat,  and  none  learned  quicker  than  she  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  soup-bone  or  the  satisfying  qualities  of 
a  breakfast  of  batter-cakes. 


LIFE  IN  A  COLLEGE  CLUB  215 

This  last  knowledge  came  from  a  remark  of 
Mrs.  Hoyson  herself,  with  whom  Emma  was  ar- 
ranging the  breakfasts  for  her  week,  and  discussing 
the  merits  of  the  various  breakfast-dishes  proposed, 
always  of  course  with  an  eye  to  economy.  Mrs. 
Hoyson,  to  help  matters  along,  ventured  the  re- 
mark, with  her  peculiar  nasal  drawl,  and  without 
much  regard  to  grammar  or  pronunciation,  "You  'd 
better  try  pancakes ;  pancakes  is  mighty  fillin'." 
This,  Emma,  with  her  inimitable  sense  of  humor, 
related  for  the  benefit  o-f  the  club,  and  pancakes 
became  the  order  of  the  day. 

Having  tasted  the  sweets  of  economy,  Emma 
began  to  carry  it  into  her  private  expenses,  as  the 
following  will  show:  They  were  all  seated  at  the 
table,  when  Louise  happened  to  remark,  "I  wish  we 
had  a  barrel  of  apples,  say  of  Belleflower  or  of 
Winesaps,  from  the  home  orchard." 

"O  dear!"  returned  Emma,  "apples  are  dread- 
ful dear !  I  priced  some  on  the  way  to  school  this 
morning,  and  they  were  three  for  a  dime.  I  wanted 
some  so  badly,  though,  I  told  the  boy  I  would 
take  five  cents'  worth."  A  peal  of  laughter  followed 
this  announcement,  and  it  took  Emma  a  whole 
minute  to  discover  that  there  was  anything  funny 
in  the  proposed  purchase  of  half  an  apple.  "No 
wonder  that  the  boy  looked  perplexed  and  busied 


216  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

himself  with  another  customer,"  she  admitted  to 
herself. 

A  full  account  of  all  these  exploits,  Emma 
"wrote  up"  in  her  weekly  letter  home.  At  first, 
these  letters  were  a  source  of  great  amusement, 
and  much  interest  was  felt  in  "Emma's  latest  freak." 
After  a  while,  however,  the  fear  came  that  perhaps, 
for  the  sake  of  health,  the  girls  were  carrying  the 
matter  too  far ;  and  so,  upon  the  receipt  of  the  apple 
episode,  done  up  in  Emma's  most  melodramatic 
manner,  Mrs.  Ward  said  emphatically :  "Well,  I 
have  wanted  to  visit  Emma  for  a  long  time.  I  am 
going  at  once." 

A  few  days  after,  as  the  girls  were  sitting  down 
to  one  of  their  plainest  dinners,  they  were  greatly 
surprised  by  seeing  a  cab  drive  up,  and  in  another 
moment,  Emma  was  in  her  mother's  arms.  It  did 
not  take  that  lady  long  to  decide  that  both  Emma 
and  Louise  would  be  better  off  back  in  their  old 
cozy  home.  Mr.  Ward  sent  a  message  to  the  effect 
that  he  would  see  that  Mrs.  Millionaire  and  the 
mission  did  not  suffer  in  this  decision.  Louise  con- 
curred, with  a  bit  of  exultation  in  her  heart,  it  must 
be  confessed.  Besides,  had  she  not  had  an  "experi- 
ence" as  well  as  the  home-folks? 


XVIII 

An  Oratorical   Contest — Sad  Ending 

IN  pleasanter  quarters  the  year  passed,  arid  never 
perhaps  had  more  genuine  hard  work  been  done. 
Commencement-week  was  hastening;  but  preced- 
ing this  by  a  fortnight  an  event  was  to  occur  in 
which  the  interest  of  all  centered. 

Their  university  was  a  member  of  an  inter- 
collegiate oratorical  association,  and  had  been 
chosen  as  the  place  where  representatives  of  the 
different  colleges  should  meet  and  contest  for  the 
honor  of  supremacy. 

With  a  thrill  of  pride,  Louise  received  from 
Richard  the  message  that  he  had  been  chosen  to 
represent  his  college.  Ah,  if  he  should  win !  And 
her  blood  hasted  and  her  cheeks  glowed  as  she 
imagined  him  the  hero  of  the  occasion.  Little  else 
than  the  contest  was  talked  of.  At  length  the  day 
came. 

As  the  representatives  from  the  different  col- 
leges began  to  gather,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  they 
were  all  picked  men,  the  pride  of  their  institutions. 

Many  were  accompanied  by  some  of  their  particu- 
217 


218  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

lar  friends,  who  desired  to  witness  the  success,  as 
each  one  hoped,  of  their  "man." 

Among  them  came  Richard  Newcomb,  who  lost 
110  time  in  calling  upon  her  for  whose  sake  he  was 
most  anxious  to  succeed.  From  him,  Louise 
learned  that  a  company  of  his  friends,  among 
whom  was  a  Mr.  Braceton,  had  accompanied  him. 

The  next  few  hours  seemed  like  a  dream,  they 
were  so  full  of  feverish  anxiety.  At  length  came 
the,  packed  hall,  the  flutter  of  college  colors,  the 
din  of  college  yells,  and  then  the  genuine  eloquence 
of  each  contestant. 

Presently  a  clear,  rich,  well-modulated  voice 
began.  Ah;  how  well  Louise  knew  each  tone! 
See,  the  audience  is  growing  still,  is  bending  to 
listen. 

The  chosen  theme  is  one  that  touches  the  heart, 
and  the  great  heart  of  the  audience  responds  as 
the  earnest,  impassioned  sentences  fall  from  the 
speaker's  lips. 

The  orator  at  length  sits  down  amid  a  storm  of 
applause.  There  were  others  yet  to  speak;  but 
Louise  felt  that  her  lover  had  won,  and  it  was 
true. 

Later  the  prize  was  given  to  him,  a  lovely  sil- 
vered head  of  the  great  Demosthenes,  crowned 
with  a  golden  crown  of  laurel,  the  latter  of  such 


AN  ORATORICAL  CONTEST  219 

fine  and  beautiful  workmanship  that  the  delicate 
leaves  seemed  to  quiver  before  the  slightest  breeze. 
Louise  could  not  trust  herself  to  offer  the  custom- 
ary congratulations  before  so  many  curious  eyes. 

Leaving  a  message  with  Asbury  to  the  effect 
that  she  and  her  room-mate,  Miss  Ward,  would 
call  in  the  morning,  she  quickly  sought  the  privacy 
of  her  room. 

In  the  after  years  of  her  life  she  was  wont  to 
look  back  upon  the  delirious  joy  of  that  evening  as 
of  an  experience  in  the  life  of  another,  one  of  whom 
perhaps  she  had  read,  so  far  away  and  unreal  did 
it  come  to  seem. 

Her  first  thought  on  awakening  the  next  morn- 
ing was,  "Richard  has  won !"  How  proud  she 
felt  of  him !  What  might  she  not  expect  from  the 
future,  in  which  the  world  must  recognize  his 
ability? 

In  front  of  her  window  stood  a  great  tree,  always 
a  favorite  trysting-place  for  robins  and  the  other 
birds  of  the  locality.  As  she  threw  open  the  sash, 
she  noticed  a  robin  swaying  to  and  fro  on  one  of 
the  topmost  boughs.  As  she  looked,  she  saw  him 
throw  back  his  head,  and  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight 
burst  into  such  a  flood  of  melody  that  the  quiet 
stillness  of  the  morning  seemed  suddenly  to  become 
one  great  anthem  of  praise.  This  accorded  well 


220  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

with  her  own  present  emotions,  and  she  said  softly 
to  herself,  "The  bird  is  not  happier  than  I." 

The  song  finished,  the  happy  songster  flew  up 
yet  a  little  higher,  and  perched  upon  another  limb, 
not  yet  leaving  the  shady  tree.  Suddenly  there  was 
a  whirr  from  a  bow  and  arrow  in  the  hands  of  a 
neighbor's  boy,  and  his  sweet  song  was  hushed 
forever. 

Shocked,  and  with  her  heart  filled  with  pity  at 
the  tragedy,  she  hastened  to  where  he  lay  gasping; 
but  as  she  stroked  the  ruffled  plumage,  there  was 
no  voice  to  whisper  that  her  own  happiness  might 
be  wrecked  as  quickly. 

As  she  knew  that  in  all  probability  many  would 
call  at  the  victor's  rooms  during  the  morning,  she 
arranged  that  hers  should  be  as  early  as  possible, 
and  so,  as  the  silvery  chimes  of  ten  o'clock  rang 
out,  she,  with  Asbury  and  Emma,  started  for  the 
hotel  where  he  was  stopping. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  go  back  to  the  victor. 
Flushed  with  excitement,  congratulated  on  all  sides, 
the  idol  for  the  time  of  the  college  friends  who  had 
accompanied  him,  Richard  Newcomb  went  to  his 
rooms  happier,  having  lately  known  such  sorrow, 
than  he  could  have  dreamed  possible. 

Students  from  the  different  colleges  began  to 
gather  in  his  room  and  offer  congratulations. 


SAD  ENDING  221 

Later,  when  the  number  had  narrowed  down  to 
perhaps  a  half  dozen,  Braceton  suggested  that  they 
should  celebrate  the  victory  in  some  sort  of  style. 

Richard  demurred.  More  than  once  in  Brace- 
ton's  own  room  he  had  gone  beyond  the  bounds, 
and  none  knew  as  well  as  he  the  danger  that  men- 
aced him.  But  Braceton  insisted,  and  finally  a 
bottle  of  champagne  was  brought. 

"No,  no !  not  here !"  Richard  said,  as  the  spark- 
ling glass  was  handed  him. 

At  this  arose  a  laugh, — a  laugh  which  was  de- 
cisive. It  is  easier  for  some  to  stand  before  a  bullet 
than  before  a  laugh.  So  the  glass  was  drained; 
then  another.  Other  bottles  were  brought,  and 
soon  the  walls  echoed  with  foolish  laughter  and 
jest. 

With  the  second  draught,  all  control  of  himself 
passed  from  young  Newcomb.  Gone  were  the 
memories  of  a  mother's  death,  a  father's  trouble ; 
gone  even  the  memory  of  Louise;  and  not  until 
the  early  dawn  did  he  fall  into  a  drunken  stupor, 
dressed  as  he  had  come  from  the  hall,  and  so  he 
was  lying  when  Louise  crossed  the  threshold. 

The  parlors  of  this  hotel  were  on  the  second 
floor,  and  the  room  Richard  and  Braceton  occupied 
was  only  a  door  distant. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  visitors  the  porter  knocked 


222  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

at  the  door,  and  handed  the  card  to  Braceton,  who 
had  answered.  (It  was  a  peculiarity  that  the  drink 
that  would  affect  the  quick,  nervous  brain  of  New- 
comb,  Braceton  would  hardly  feel.) 

As  he  took  the  card,  he  read  aloud  the  name. 
Was  it  the  magic  of  the  name  that  broke  the 
drunken  stupor  ?  At  any  rate,  Richard  slowly  arose, 
looked  wildly  around,  saying,  "Where  am  I?" 

"Pull  yourself  together,  old  fellow,"  said  Brace- 
ton.  "You  have  callers  that  I  think  you  would 
like  to  see,  though  you  had  better  say  you  're  out 
till  you  're  in  better  shape." 

"What  do  you  say?"  and  as  he  seized  the  deli- 
cate card  in  his  hand,  somehow,  through  the  be- 
fogged brain,  was  borne  the  fact  that  Louise  was 
waiting,  and  without  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
started  to  go  to  her. 

Perceiving  this,  Braceton  took  hold  of  him  to 
hold  him  back.  Then  came  the  sound  of  a  thick, 
incoherent,  angry  voice,  echoes  of  which  floated 
over  the  open  transom  into  the  parlors.  Emma 
started,  and  Louise  grew  pale  with  apprehension. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked  Rich- 
ard, with  hair  wildly  disheveled,  eyes  bloodshot, 
his  whole  attire  bespeaking  a  night's  carousal. 

Muttering  something  in  an  incoherent,  unsteady 
manner,  he  essayed  to  walk  across  the  room  to 


SAD  ENDING  223 

where  Louise  sat,  the  strong  odor  of  wine  preced- 
ing him. 

Like  a  flash  upon  the  startled  girl  came  the 
memory  of  that  dreadful  night  when  Baby  Flossie 
lay  dying,  and  a  drunken  husband  had  ended  his 
own  miserable  life ;  and  with  this  flash  came  a  real- 
izing sense  of  Richard's  condition. 

With  a  low  moan,  and  a  startled,  appealing 
glance  toward  Asbury  and  Emma,  she  fled  through 
the  open  door. 

O !  to  be  home,  to  be  in  her  own  room,  to  be 
anywhere,  that  she  might  hide  her  shame  and  dis- 
grace ! 

A  few  minutes  later,  returning  homeward,  she 
entered  the  gateway,  and  just  by  the  door  the  body 
of  the  dead  robin  still  lay.  Mechanically  she 
stopped  as  she  said,  "O !  little  bird,  I  am  brought 
as  low  as  you;  your  happiness  is  not  more  surely 
ended  than  is  mine." 

Passing  to  her  room,  the  disgrace  of  the  scene 
she  had  so  recently  witnessed  well-nigh  over- 
whelmed her.  With  it  came  the  conviction,  slow 
but  sure,  that  the  various  whispered  rumors  which 
had  reached  her  during  the  years,  and  to  which  she 
had  so  vehemently  refused  credence,  were  true. 
Then  came  the  pain  and  the  heart  agony  as  the 
idol  came  to  be  torn  out ;  for  "torn  from  her  heart 


224  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

he  should  be,"  she  said  to  herself.  An  hour  ago 
she  had  been  so  proud  of  him ;  but  now  ?  Yes,  the 
dream  was  over.  Little  Flossie  had  not  died  in 
vain. 

The  next  day  the  great  panting  engine  rapidly 
bore  Louise  on  her  homeward  journey,  yet  it  could 
not  go  fast  enough  to  suit  the  wild  tumult  in  her 
heart.  After  what  seemed  an  age,  the  familiar 
home  depot  was  reached.  She  had  half  expected 
that  her  father  or  one  of  the  boys  would  meet  her, 
else  how  would  she  get  out  to  the  farm  ? 

A  sudden  remembrance  of  the  change  swept 
over  her.  Ordering  a  carriage,  she  was  soon  being 
driven  rapidly  to  the  new  home. 

Rachel  had  been  unusually  busy  that  morning, 
and  had  just  sat  down  in  an  easy  chair  for  a  few 
minutes'  talk  with  her  husband,  who  had  entered 
when  hearing  the  noise  of  wheels  at  the  gate,  and 
glancing  out  she  caught  sight  of  the  carriage  which 
carried  passengers  to  and  from  the  trains. 

"Why,  who  can  it  be  ?"  and  she  looked  curiously 
at  the  strangely  familiar  figure  now  coming  up  the 
walk. 

As  Louise  stepped  upon  the  porch  she  raised 
her  veil  as  if  in  search  of  something  familiar.  As 
Rachel  looked  on  the  face,  and  recognized  it  as  her 
daughter's,  a  sudden  fear  swept  over  her. 


SAD  ENDING  225 

"Louise!  Louise!  my  child!  speak,  tell  me,  are 
you  ill?"  for  Louise  was  now  sobbing — the  first 
tears  since  that  dreadful  morning. 

"Yes,  mother,  sick  of  life,  sick  at  heart." 

Gently,  Rachel  unloosed  her  wraps  and  removed 
her  hat,  and  with  motherly  tact  soothed  her  while 
she  told  the  dreadful  story. 

"Mother,"  said  Louise,  after  the  storm  had 
spent  itself,  and  she  had  been  soothed  by  the  sym- 
pathy of  both  father  and  mother,  "it  is  all  over. 
Henceforth  he  must  be  to  me  as  if  he  had  never 
been.  I  can  never  forget  poor  little  Flossie." 

At  this,  though  her  face  betokened  naught  but 
true  sympathy  with  the  grief  of  her  daughter,  a 
song  of  thanksgiving  arose  in  the  mother's  heart. 
Curiously  enough,  even  as  she  held  her  in  her  arms 
and  comforted  her,  the  night  of  her  own  agony  in 
the  farmhouse  came  vividly  back.  How,  torn  with 
doubts  and  fears,  she  had  tossed  upon  her  bed, 
saying  over  and  over  to  herself,  "It  must  be  broken 
off;  but  how?"  Alas,  that  in  the  answering  there 
should  be  so  many  ruined  hopes  and  so  much  of 
sorrow ! 

To  do  her  justice,  it  must  be  said  that  she  was 
grieved  to  hear  of  Richard's  fall.  She  had  not  ex- 
pected it  to  come  in  so  gross  a  manner.  She  had 
yielded  at  last  a  tacit  consent  to  the  marriage 
15 


226  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

which  seemed  inevitable ;  but  with  all  her  intuitions 
on  the  alert,  she  could  see  nothing  but  unhappiness. 
Better  a  thousand  heartaches  at  present,  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  noted  Louise's  grief,  than  that  the 
entire  life  should  be  wrecked,  and  trusting  to  the 
elasticity  of  youth,  she  hoped  that  all  would  yet  be 
well. 

After  the  first  greetings,  and  the  first  pangs  of 
shame  and  grief  over,  Louise  quickly  detected  the 
changes  time  had  brought  about.  Her  father 
looked  old  and  careworn,  and  there  came  a  realiz- 
ing sense  in  her  heart  of  all  the  dear  ones  had 
suffered;  and  the  hope  was  born  and  grew  that, 
though  her  own  happiness  was  as  she  believed 
wrecked  forever,  still  there  might  remain  the  joy  of 
lightening  their  burdens. 

The  greatest  change  was  in  her  brothers  and 
sisters.  She  could  hardly  connect  the  old,  quiet 
playmate  Ruth  with  the  tall,  slender,  girlish  woman, 
who  ruled  with  a  sway  of  gentleness  in  the  little 
schoolhouse  just  back  of  the  farm. 

Edward  and  John  seemed  suddenly  grown  up, 
the  latter  a  counterpart  of  his  father.  Indeed,  some- 
times as  he  walked  down  the  yard,  there  was  that 
in  his  carriage  that  brought  back  strangely  to 
Rachel  the  old  days  at  Lyntan,  when  a  shy,  rugged 
farmer  had  become  all  in  all  to  her.  He  had  his 


SAD  ENDING  227 

father's  strict  notions  of  honesty  and  his  mother's 
unquestioning  faith,  and  with  the  advantage  of  a 
modern  education,  he  bade  fair  to  make  a  widely 
useful  man.  But  it  was  a  matter  of  regret 
that  he  seemed  less  inclined  to  study  than  the 
others.  There  had  been  so  much  hard  work  on 
the  farm,  always  something  for  which  he  seemed 
especially  fitted;  so  it  was  not  strange  that  he  was 
not  the  student  that  either  of  the  older  ones  was. 

A  letter  soon  followed  Louise  from  Asbury,  in 
which  he  stated  that  he  had  received  an  offer  to 
take  charge  of  a  congregation  in  the  State  where 
the  university  was  situated.  So,  with  his  parents' 
leave,  he  would  not  be  home  during  the  vacation, 
and  Louise  was  the  more  readily  reconciled  to  this, 
because,  while  he  sympathized  with  her  in  the  mor- 
tification which  she  had  endured,  yet,  with  his  strict 
notions  of  right  and  wrong,  he  had  always  agreed 
with  his  mother  that  there  could  be  nothing  but 
unhappiness  from  the  marriage,  and  really  he  felt 
that  no  price  was  too  dear  to  pay  for  release  from 
such  a  bondage. 

The  father  and  mother  began,  though,  to  won- 
der if  their  children  would  ever  be  at  home  together 
again. 


XIX 

"Farewell,   Life   Choice" 

I OUISE  soon  found  her  niche  in  the  household. 
I—/  She  had  lost  none  of  her  old  helpfulness,  and 
as  Ruth's  school  was  just  closing,  the  mother  would 
say,  jesting,  that  with  two  grown  daughters  her 
occupation  was  gone. 

She  found  the  family  still  sore  over  the  loss  of 
their  home,  yet  bravely  trying  to  make  the  best  of 
life.  As  for  herself,  she  did  not  dare  let  them 
know  how  much  she  missed  the  dear  old  home  and 
the  farm,  with  the  many  associations  of  her  child- 
hood, nor  how  much  of  a  stranger  she  felt  herself 
to  be  in  the  smart  new  cottage  they  were  beginning 
to  call  home. 

In  those  days  she  did  not  look  far  into  the  fu- 
ture. The  past  had  been  so  bitter,  perhaps  it  might 
be  given  her  in  the  every-day  life  of  the  present  to 
be  of  some  practical  use  to  her  brothers  and  sisters. 
So,  with  as  much  zeal  as  though  her  livelihood 
depended  upon  it,  she  began  giving  Ruth  instruc- 
tion in  music.  Edward's  rapid  development  had 
228 


"FAREWELL,  LIFE  CHOICE"  229 

startled  her,  and  it  was  with  genuine  prfde  that  she 
noted  his  well-defined  literary  taste.  She  often 
said  to  her  parents,  as  she  noted  his  unerring  judg- 
ment of  the  literature  which  came  into  the  home, 
that  certainly,  somewhere  and  somehow,  he  would 
find  his  life-work  among  books ;  but  how  should 
she  interest  John,  rugged,  plain-spoken,  practical 
John,  upon  whom  the  family  were  coming  to  lean 
more  and  more  ?  For  that  he  must  be  interested  in 
books  and  in  study  she  felt  very  sure. 

Now  fortune  favored  her.  Quite  a  bit  of  local 
interest  was  manifest  just  now  in  the  application  of 
certain  phosphates  to  a  stretch  of  alkaline  lands 
which  ran  up  to  one  side  of  the  city,  and  none  were 
more  interested  than  John  in  the  outcome.  This 
gave  her  an  idea.  Might  he  not  become  interested 
in  chemistry  itself?  She  approached  the  question 
with  tact,  and  erelong  it  came  to  be  the  usual 
thing  to  have  an  "experiment"  on  hands.  One 
victory  won,  she  planned  another.  She  had  many 
interesting  episodes  of  her  class  studies  in  geology, 
with  which  she  regaled  him,  as  they  took  tramp 
after  tramp,  of  her  planning,  together.  Yes,  they 
really  littered  up  the  house,  and  brought  home 
much  that  was  worthless ;  but  a  nature  hitherto  deaf 
to  the  persuasive  voice  of  study  was  surely  awaken- 
ing, and  Louise,  fresh  from  a  realm  where  learning 


230  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

and  culture  were  sovereign,  felt  no  trouble  too 
great  if  that  goal  could  be  reached. 

It  was  not  strange  that  occasionally  on  these 
tramps  their  feet  should  turn  toward  the  old  farm. 
One  day,  as  they  sat  together  on  the  edge  of  the 
woodland  Louise  remembered  so  well,  John  re- 
counted for  his  sister's  benefit  the  whole  history 
of  those  dreadful  weeks.  So  vivid  was  his  por- 
trayal that  she  seemed  to  live  over  the  scene,  and 
could  almost  hear  the  creak  of  the  wagons  that 
bore  the  family  and  belongings  away. 

"But  I  tell  you,  sister  mine,  I  '11  have  every  acre 
back,"  and  as  he  spoke  his  glowing  face  and  flash- 
ing eye  showed  that  this  promise,  which  he  had 
made  to  himself  and  his  mother  in  the  midst  of  their 
trouble,  had  taken  deep  root  in  his  heart.  Louise 
watched  the  strong  face,  and  began  to  question  him 
as  to  his  plans.  These  she  found  were  as  yet  very 
vague;  but  here  was  her  opportunity,  and  in  a 
kindly  way  she  showed  that  in  order  to  cope  with 
the  world  an  education  was  necessary.  "But  I  '11 
never  go  to  college,"  insisted  he. 

"Well,  you  need  not  if  you  so  choose ;  but  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  education  you  must  have.  Take 
mathematics,  for  instance — 

"Do  n't  mention  that  study.  It  is  the  prince  of 
all  evils,"  interposed  John. 


" FAREJWEXI,,  LIFE  CHOICE"  231 

"By  no  means ;  rather,  this  science  is  mankind's 
best  friend,"  and  she  went  on  to  tell  him,  among 
other  things,  of  the  wonderful  array  of  facts  that 
would  be  absolutely  unknowable  without  this  exact 
science.  His  interest  was  aroused,  and  before  an- 
other week  had  passed  he  had  gotten  the  key  to 
successful  study — he  was  interested.  Then  began  a 
companionship  which,  in  after  years,  when  an  ocean 
came  to  roll  between  these  two,  became  a  blessed 
memory.  Nor  did  this  gifted  sister,  with  all  the 
later  work  that  she  was  permitted  to  do  in  after 
years,  ever  value  aught  of  that  so  highly  as  she  did 
these  few  weeks  spent  with  her  brother. 

A  few  weeks  after  Louise's  return,  an  event 
occurred  which,  in  order  properly  to  chronicle,  we 
shall  have  to  return  to  the  university,  so  suddenly 
and  unceremoniously  left. 

Never  did  Esau  of  old  sorrow  more  over  the  loss 
of  his  birthright  than  did  Richard  Newcomb  when 
he  came  to  himself  and  realized  what  had  occurred. 

Shame,  mortification,  self-condemnation,  and 
anger  at  his  false  friends,  raged  in  his  breast.  With 
intellectual,  laurel-crowned  brow,  his  "Demos- 
thenes" gazed  solemnly  at  him  from  the  mantle. 
How  he  hated  the  unoffending  silver !  What  were 
a  thousand  prizes,  if  disgrace  ruled  supreme  and 
Louise  were  lost? 


232  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Braceton  flippantly  bade  him  "cheer  up."  To 
Richard's  credit,  be  it  said,  he  angrily  turned  on 
him  and  bade  him  begone ;  he  wished  never  to  see 
him  again. 

Was  all  lost?  Gradually  the  hope  grew  upon 
him  that  it  was  not.  He  knew  that  Louise's  great 
love  had  stood  firm  in  the  other  great  trials.  Might 
he  not  hope  it  would  yet  stand?  He  turned  this 
over,  and  at  last  resolved  to  go  and  throw  himself 
upon  her  mercy.  He  knew  of  her  sudden  flight 
home,  he  could  guess  her  mortification ;  but  "there 
was  but  one  hope  in  life  left  him.  He  would  see 
her,  would  plead  his  case,  and  give  her  his  solemn 
pledge  that  he  would  never  again  touch  wine  hi 
any  form. 

How  clearly  he  now  saw,  with  her,  that  this  was 
for  him  the  only  safe  course! 

One  day  in  the  early  summer,  Louise  was  star- 
tled by  the  appearance  of  her  lover.  She  dared  not 
look  at  him,  lest  the  sight  of  his  abject  sorrow 
might  turn  her. 

"Never  again  would  he  fall  so  low,"  came  the 
promise  straight  from  the  heart;  for  the  pleader 
knew  that  for  him  it  was  a  matter  of  life  or  death. 

With  her  by  his  side,  he  was  sure  he  could 
stand ;  without  her,  he  was  lost.  But  no ;  she  could 
not  listen.  She  had  to  bid  him  go ;  for  a  dead  baby- 


'•  FAREWELL,  I,IFE  CHOICE"  233 

face  looked  out  from  a  bank  of  flowers,  bidding  her 
remember  that  "a  drunkard  is  a  slave." 

So  these  two  parted.  The  one,  to  go  to  her 
room,  to  throw  herself  upon  the  hard  floor  in  agony, 
to  moan,  to  pray,  and  finally,  from  her  knees,  to  go 
out  bravely  into  life  to  take  up  such  duties  as  He 
might  give.  The  other  ?  As  Adam  left  Paradise,  to 
that  may  this  other  going  be  likened.  Behind  were 
love  and  happiness,  and,  he  told  himself,  success. 
Beyond?  But  he  could  get  no  further;  for  despair 
lay  at  his  heart.  He  knew  he  was  lost. 

Did  she  do  right  ?  Was  not  her  place  at  his  side, 
if  in  happiness?  Well,  if  in  suffering,  still  the 
same?  Ought  she  not  to  have  thrown  her  pure, 
strong  self  in  the  breach  in  an  effort  to  save  this 
erring,  brilliant  young  man  ? 

Ask  the  drunkard's  child,  who  begs  at  your 
doorway,  half  clad,  hungry,  often  diseased  in  body, 
an  imbecile  in  mind;  ask  the  drunkard's  wife,  as 
hungry,  beaten,  bruised,  she  pitifully  stoops  on  the 
common  to  gather  a  few  sticks  to  warm  her  babes, 
while  she  goes  to  beg  charity  that  they  may  be  fed. 
Ask,  if  you  still  doubt,  the  murdered  Flossies  (and 
they  are  many),  and  in  one  strong  chorus  the  an- 
swer comes,  "She  did  right!" 

After  Richard's  departure,  until  near  the  close 
of  the  summer,  the  days  went  by  without  incident. 


234  RICHARD  NEWCOMB' 

Louise,  with  the  old  imperiousness  all  gone,  anxious 
for  a  work  that  might  help  her  to  forget  her  sor- 
row, entered  heartily  into  the  duties  of  the  home. 
She  often  contrasted  this  summer  with  the  last — 
that  so  full  of  the  world,  and  this  of  home  quiet. 
One  day,  toward  the  end  of  August,  a  letter  came 
to  her  from  Emma's  home,  but  the  superscription 
was  not  Emma's. 

She  broke  the  seal,  and  read  with  growing  in- 
terest and  surprise,  then  handed  it  in  silence  to 
her  father. 

It  proved  to  be  from  Mrs.  Millionaire,  who 
wrote,  not  only  in  loving  remembrance,  but  in  re- 
ferring to  the  pleasant  acquaintance  of  a  year  ago, 
said:  "You  will  remember  my  brother  William, 
who  was  in  theological  school  when  you  were  here. 
He  and  his  wife  have  been  accepted  as  missionaries 
to  a  province  in  China.  The  Woman's  Union  Mis- 
sionary Society  is  earnestly  calling  for  a  conse- 
crated young  woman  to  go  with  them  to  teach  in  a 
school.  Indeed,  I  shall  have  to  say  plainly,  to  build 
up  from  nothing  a  girls'  college.  I  have  had  you 
in  my  mind  as  a  suitable  person.  Will  you  go? 
Shall  I  present  your  name  as  a  candidate?" 

The  letter  dropped  from  John  Stevenson's  hands 
as  he  finished  reading  it  aloud  to  his  wife.  How 
often  about  their  hearthstone  had  foreign  mission- 


"FAREWEU,,  LIFE  CHOICE"  235 

aries  been  earnestly  prayed  for!  Many  were  the 
sacrifices  that  had  been  made  that  they  might  have 
more  for  this  beloved  cause.  But  to  give  a  daugh- 
ter, and  her  one  who  had  throughout  her  life  been 
in  a  peculiar  sense  the  brightness,  the  sunshine,  the 
music  of  the  home!  How  could  it  be?  And 
Louise?  See  her  as  she  stands  there  by  the  win- 
dow ledge,  her  face  a  study  of  emotions.  So  reso- 
lutely had  she  thrust  away  her  cup  of  proffered 
happiness,  and  so  uncomplainingly  had  she  busied 
herself  about  the  home,  that  not  one  of  the  house- 
hold had  realized  the  real  depth  of  the  blow  under 
which  she  staggered. 

It  is  a  strange  fact  that  parents  are  often  slow  to 
ascribe  the  same  depth  of  feeling  to  their  children 
which  they  themselves  possess.  To  illustrate: 
Rachel  Stevenson's  children  never  tired  of  hearing 
her  tell  of  the  dear  old  village  of  Lynton,  of  the 
old  sweet  days  when  she  and  their  father  became 
all  in  all  to  each  other,  of  their  wedding-day,  and  of 
the  strange  journey  westward.  As  the  boys  and 
girls  grew  older,  often  one  would  say  to  the  other, 
"How  much  mother  must  have  loved  father  to  have 
left  her  friends  and  home  forever!"  and,  though 
Rachel  had  not  seemed  to  suspect  it,  just  such  a 
love  had  Louise  felt  for  Richard  Newcomb. 
Thoughts  of  him  had  entered  into  every  phase  of 


236  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

her  life.  When  she  had  practiced  a  song,  running 
all  through  and  giving  zest  to  the  practice  had  been 
thoughts  of  her  bonny  young  lover.  Ah,  how 
brilliant  he  was !  How  hard  she  must  work  for  his 
sake!  This  self-abnegation  of  true  love  must  al- 
ways remain  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  human 
heart.  Yet  loving  him  so,  she  had  relentlessly,  at 
duty's  bidding,  uttered  the  words  that  had  parted 
them  forever.  She  was  too  brave  and  sensible, 
though,  to  allow  her  life  to  become  a  failure ;  so  she 
had  thrown  herself,  with  all  her  energies,  into  the 
duties  that  had  happened  to  He  nearest.  But  O, 
the  heart  hunger,  the  ache,  and  the  pity !  The  one 
cry  of  her  heart  had  been  for  work,  absorbing 
work,  and  now  came  this  call.  Was  it  of  God? 
Was  she  worthy?  Her  heart  bounded  at  the 
thought.  If  these  two  questions  were  but  settled, 
how  gladly  she  would  go!  She  had  told  her  par- 
ents much  concerning  her  work  and  study,  dur- 
ing the  past  summer,  as  a  member  of  the  mission 
circle.  Could  it  be,  they  thought  as  they  noted 
her  eagerness  to  go,  that  that  had  been  a  providen- 
tial school,  sent  before  by  the  Father  to  prepare  this 
child  of  his  for  service?  If  so,  no.  But  it  could 
not  be  settled  without  help ;  but  the  Help  so  freely 
promised  for  every  need  was  given,  and  after  a 
week,  in  what  seemed  in  its  heart-agony  to  be  an 


LIFE  CHOICE"  237 

echo  of  Gethsemane,  this  Christian  father  and 
mother  were  able,  through  their  tears,  to  say,  "Go." 

Perhaps  never  did  weeks  slip  by  as  did  these 
few  intervening  between  the  date  fixed  for  her  de- 
parture. Asbury  hastened  home,  that  they  might 
all  be  together  again.  So,  with  aching  hearts, 
father  and  mother  saw  the  dawn  of  the  day  that 
was  to  take  their  darling  away,  yet  not  one  would 
have  uttered  the  word  "Stay" 

Louise  never  forgot  the  last  morning,  as  they 
gathered  for  family  prayers.  How  old,  how  bent, 
seemed  her  father,  as  with  trembling  voice  he  be- 
gan to  read  those  matchless  words  of  David,  "He 
that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High 
shall  abide  under  the*  shadow  of  the  Almighty!" 
From  the  beginning,  John  and  Rachel  Stevenson 
had  been  so  careful  about  nothing  as  that  they  and 
theirs  should  so  dwell;  therefore  he  had  a  right  to 
pray,  as  he  now  did :  "Make  good  thy  promises,  O 
God !  We  have  sore  need  of  thy  sheltering  wings. 
Infold  this  dear  child!"  Little  wonder  the  prayer 
died  down  in  sobs,  and  remained  unfinished.  Ah, 
well!  He  knew.  Have  little  fear,  brave  girl;  the 
Sheltering  Wings  will  cover  thee,  and  the  Everlast- 
ing Arms  will  be  underneath. 

A  few  hours  later  she  was  gone — gone,  with  her 
cheery  ways,  her  sweet  voice,  and  her  sunny  pres- 


238  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

ence.  Asbury  accompanied  her  as  far  as  New 
York.  Had  the  journey  been  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury later,  they  would,  of  course,  have  sailed  from  a 
western  port ;  but  arrangements  had  been  made  that 
she  should  sail  with  an  English  party  from  Liver- 
pool. 

A  week  later,  in  one  of  the  largest  churches 
of  New  York,  a  "farewell  meeting"  was  announced 
for  some  outgoing  missionaries  who  were  about  to 
sail.  The  hour  was  filled  with  prayer  and  testimony 
and  songs  of  praise.  The  missionaries  had  mostly 
spoken  of  their  interest  in  the  work,  and  how 
willingly  they  had  given  themselves  to  the  cause; 
but  the  audience  was  chiefly  interested  in  a  young 
girl,  especially  gifted,  who  was  leaving,  so  it  was 
said,  a  loving  home-circle,  having  consecrated  her 
life  to  this  work. 

Anticipating  the  natural  wish  of  the  audience  to 
hear  her,  the  kindly  presiding  officer,  bending  over, 
spoke  a  few  words  in  her  ear.  She  arose,  stood  a 
moment,  and  then  the  wondrously  rich  voice  began, 
in  song,  "Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,"  with  the 
words : 

'E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me, 
Still,  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee; 
Nearer  to  Thee." 


LIFE  CHOICB"  239 

The  audience  was  moved  to  tears.  Yet  none  of 
them  guessed  the  story  of  the  cross  which  had 
brought  the  singer  so  wondrously  near  the  Divine 
One. 

*  *  :)<  H«  * 

"Did  you  see  that  strange,  poorly-clad  woman 
in  the  rear  of  the  church"  said  one  to  another,  as 
they  slowly  wended  their  way  homeward  after  the 
services. 

"That  one  who  seemed  to  be  so  much  affected 
with  Miss  Stevenson's  song?" 

"Yes." 

"Doubtless  she  was  some  one  who  had  dropped 
in  off  the  street." 

Later  the  bell  rang  at  the  home  where  Louise 
was  stopping,  with  her  dear  friend  Emma,  who 
had  come  to  see  her  sail,  and  a  poorly-clad  woman, 
carrying  a  baby,  asked  to  see  Miss  Stevenson. 
Louise  went  at  once  to  the  room  where  she  was 
waiting,  and  after  eagerly  scanning  the  visitor's 
face,  with  a  start  of  surprise,  cried  out,  "Therese 
Newcom'b !" 

Yes,  it  was  she.  In  some  way  the  poor,  home- 
sick, unhappy  child  had  heard  of  the  meeting  and 
of  Louise,  and  she  had  yielded  to  an  irresistible 
desire  to  see  her.  She  had  not  expected  to  make 
herself  known ;  -but  the  song  had  broken  up  the 


240  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

fountains  of  her  heart,  and  she  had  been  impelled  to 
seek  her  out.  Nor  did  she  even  now  expect  to 
whisper  aught  of  the  sadly-humiliated  life  she  was 
living,  nor  to  speak  of  the  cruel  treatment  of  him 
for  whom  she  had  left  home  and  friends,  who,  fail- 
ing to  realize  the  money  he  had  expected,  vented 
his  ill-will  upon  the  innocent,  foolish  young  girl. 

But  before  she  knew  it,  Louise  had  taken  the 
puny,  creeping  babe  in  her  arms,  the  young  mother 
had  pillowed  her  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  was  sob- 
bing out  the  whole  story. 

"But  you  must  go  home." 

"O  Louise,  I  can  not  go  back.  I  must  live  out 
my  wretched,  miserable  life.  I  have  sinned  away 
every  opportunity  of  my  life.  When  I  heard  of  my 
mother's  death,  I  thought  I  should  surely  die,  and 
I  wanted,  so  much,  to  go  home;  but  he — "  and 
she  shuddered  at  the  name.  "O,  I  dared  not  go! 
Then  he  was  more  angry  than  ever  when  we  heard 
of  father's  loss  of  property.  No,  I  dare  not  go," 
she  moaned.  "I  believe  he  would  follow  me  and 
kill  me." 

And  was  this  abject,  cowering  creature  the  old- 
time,  happy,  sprightly  Therese  ? 

Louise  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  the  treat- 
ment she  must  have  received  to  have  brought  her 
to  this. 


"FAREWELL,  LIFE  CHOICE"  241 

"But  you  must  go,"  she  rejoined ;  and  then  she 
told  Therese  of  her  father,  of  his  solitary  vigils  in 
the  old  home,  and  how,  as  the  weeks  lengthened 
into  months,  his  grief  seemed  to  grow  heavier. 
Therese  was  greatly  touched  at  the  recital,  and 
amid  her  tears  consented  to  make  an  attempt  to 
escape  her  present  miseries.  Perhaps,  notwith- 
standing her  grievous  fault,  there  might  yet  be  love 
and  a  welcome  in  the  shattered  home. 

That  night,  Asbury  Stevenson  helped  a  scared- 
looking  woman  into  a  western-bound  train,  and 
placing  a  ticket  in  her  hands,  bade  her  be  of  good 
heart;  yet  she  trembled  each  time  a  heavy  footstep 
passed  through.  Had  she  but  known  it,  she  had 
little  need  for  fear.  Even  that  morning  the  evil 
man  whose  cupidity  had  wrecked  her  life,  realizing 
that  the  wealth  he  had  expected  to  obtain  through 
her  had  slipped  from  his  grasp,  had  put  into  exe- 
cution a  plan,  long  nurtured,  and  had  sailed  for 
his  own  France.  Both  mother  and  babe  were  de- 
serted. 

The  following  morning,  as  the  missionary  party 
were  being  driven  to  the  pier,  Emma,  who  sat  with 
Louise's  hand  clasped  in  hers,  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper,  "Louise,  before  you  go  I  must — "  We 
lose  the  whispered  story,  if  story  it  is,  but  catch 
Louise's  outspoken,  half-deprecatory  comment, 
16 


242  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"Sly  Asbury !"  Whatever  the  communication  was, 
it  must  have  been  a  pleasant  one;  for  suddenly 
Emma  was  gathered  close  in  Louise's  arms. 

In  a  few  hours  the  outgoing  party  saw  the 
shores  of  their  native  land  recede,  and  weeping, 
waiting  friends  turned  slowly  about  to  gather  up 
again  the  broken  threads  of  their  busy  lives 


XX 

Therese — On   Both  Sides  of  an  Ocean 

THE  rapidity  with  which  the  events  have  shaped 
themselves  has  made  it  quite  impossible  to  re- 
turn to  the  stricken  man  whom  we  left  by  the  grave 
of  his  beloved  wife.  Though  Marie  would  gladly 
have  had  him  come  to  her,  he  preferred  to  return 
to  his  own  home,  where,  during  all  this  time,  he 
has  lived  in  great  loneliness.  The  greater  part  of 
the  large  house  was  shut  up,  the  few  rooms  needed 
for  his  use  being  kept  in  order  by  a  housekeeper. 
The  only  gleams  of  happiness  that  fell  across  his 
path  in  these  dark  days  were  when  Marie's  little 
Margaret  would  toddle  to  him,  climb  upon  his 
knees,  and  in  sweet,  baby  fashion  rub  her  little  soft 
hand  over  his  careworn  face.  At  such  times  his 
face  would  light  up",  but  the  light  would  as  quickly 
fade  away.  He  seemed,  as  Louise  had  told  Therese, 
to  be  settling  into  a  hopeless  melancholy. 

His  business  had  finally  been  "settled,"  which 
term,  by  a  strange  misnomer,  had  been  chosen  to 
indicate  the  final  adjustment  of  property  between 
a  bankrupt  and  his  creditors;  and  save  for  this 

243 


244  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

house,  which  had  been  the  property  of  his  wife,  he 
was  penniless.  The  peculiar  misfortunes  which  had 
befallen  him  in  his  family  affairs  had  brought  him 
much  sympathy,  and  when  a  new  company  opened 
the  "mills,"  he  was  offered  the  position  of  manager, 
with  a  good  salary. 

Had  he,  like  his  old  friend  John  Stevenson,  had 
his  family  about  him,  he  might,  with  his  rare  busi- 
ness qualities,  by  steering  clear  of  the  rock  of  specu- 
lation, have  yet  done  well, — but  Margaret,  the  joy 
of  his  home,  was  gone.  Therese,  that  blithe,  bright 
girl,  who  had  nestled  so  close  to  his  heart,  was,  he 
felt  sure,  somewhere,  perhaps  in  want  of  the  neces- 
sities of  life,  paying  the  price  of  her  folly. 

Through  the  first  months  of  his  sorrow  he  had 
clung  to  Richard  as  his  chief  prop.  How  his 
heart  had  bounded  as  the  telegraphic  message,  sent 
as  soon  as  the  result  was  known,  told  him  of  his 
oratorical  victory !  But  all  this  died  out  as  the  mis- 
erable story  of  the  evening's  subsequent  work 
reached  him,  and  also  the  knowledge  of  his  es- 
trangement from  Louise.  He  had  seen  him  leave, 
to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  West,  with  but  little  hope 
that  he  would  be  able  to  withstand  the  temptations 
sure  to  be  placed  before  him. 

A  few  days  after  the  burial  of  his  wife  an  event 
occurred  which  did  much  to  comfort  him.  This 


THERESE  245 

was  no  less  than  a  visit  from  John  Stevenson. 
Neither  of  the  men  said  much ;  but  there  was  that 
in  the  hearty  hand-grasp  which  told  the  sorrowing 
man  that  the  past  was  forgiven,  and  that  for  him 
there  was  no  other  feeling  than  that  of  genuine 
sympathy.  Indeed,  the  Stevensons  had  come  to 
feel  that  the  intention  had  never  been  wrong;  but 
rather  that,  in  the  hopeless  task  of  unraveling  the 
entanglements,  hoping  vainly  that  each  week  would 
set  matters  right,  their  own  little  fortune  had  gone 
down  with  his  greater  one. 

But  more  appalling  to  them  than  loss  of  prop- 
erty seemed  the  scattering  of  the  family.  Even  the 
death  of  Margaret,  they  felt,  could  have  been  borne 
— alas !  many  a  wife  and  mother  has  had  to  be  lain 
away — had  the  children  all  been  present  to  comfort 
and  sustain  the  afflicted  man.  In  comparison,  their 
own  lives  seemed  strangely  full  of  blessings.  So  it 
was  with  no  feigned  sympathy  that  John  Stevenson 
had  gone  to  his  old  friend.  Yet  even  the  sympa- 
thy of  an  old  friend  could  not  take  the  place  of  his 
own ;  so  after  Richard's  departure  for  the  West,  he 
had  drawn  entirely  within  himself,  and  with  a  grow- 
ing chill  at  the  heart,  his  friends  feared  his  mind 
might  give  way  under  accumulation  of  sorrow. 

Sometimes  of  a  night,  when  the  house  was  still, 
he  would  wander  aimlessly  from  room  to  room. 


246  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Usually,  upon  such  a  trip,  he  would  go  to  a  drawer 
where  a  few  valuables  were  kept,  open  it,  take  from 
its  depths  a  laurel-crowned  silver  head,  gaze  fondly 
at  it,  and  then  with  a  sigh  turn  wearily  away. 

On  one  such  night  he  was  sitting  gloomily  by 
the  fire  which  had  been  kindled  in  the  grate — for  the 
evening  was  chilly — when  the  door-bell,  now  so  sel- 
dom used,  suddenly  rang.  Answering  the  summons 
himself,  what  was  his  surprise  to  see  upon  the 
doorstep  a  woman,  ill  clad,  with  a  wailing  babe  in 
her  arms,  and  to  hear  a  voice,  strangely  familiar, 
call  out:  "Father,  father!  I  have  come  back  to 
home  and  to  you!  You  will  not  turn  me  away?" 

It  was  Therese,  who  had  made  the  long  journey 
back  to  the  home  from  which  she,  in  her  foolish- 
ness, had  fled. 

What  if  her  poor  little  life  had  been  overshad- 
owed by  a  mistake?  So  had  his.  With  out- 
stretched arms  he  welcomed  her  back  to  his  deso- 
late home,  and  Therese  knew,  for  the  first  time 
since  her  foolish  marriage,  the  value  of  the  homely 
comforts  of  food  and  shelter. 

It  had  not  yet  been  two  years  since  she  had 
gone;  but  how  she  had  aged!  It  seemed  hardly 
possible  that  this  haggard,  worn  woman  could  be 
identical  with  the  merry,  fun-loving  girl  who  had 
danced  through  these  great  halls. 


THERESE  247 

When  her  return  became  known,  Ruth  Steven- 
son soon  sought  her,  and  to  her,  for  the  sake  of 
the  sweet  friendship  of  other  days,  reticent  as  she 
might  be  to  a  curious  world,  Therese  told  her  sad 
story,  and  in  this  tender  and  sympathetic  friend 
she  came  to  find  her  greatest  comfort. 

Before  Louise  sailed,  she  had  found  time  for  a 
hurried  letter  to  Ruth.  Referring  to  Therese,  she 
said :  "We  must  remember  that  she  has  been  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning.  It  is  not  ours  to  judge 
harshly ;  and  looking  back  now  over  the  years,  it 
seems  that  the  events  that  have  so  crushed  her, 
and  others  as  well,  were  but  the  inexorable  reap- 
ing of  the  careless  sowing  of  other  days.  Be  it 
yours,  dear  Ruth,  to  lead  her  back  to  happiness 
and  a  Christian  faith.  Remember,  she  is  scarcely 
yet  a  woman  in  years.  Life  may  hold  much  for 
her  yet."  Thus  the  gentle  ministry  of  love  began, 
which  we  must  leave  to  the  years. 

Strangely  enough,  it  was  left  to  Louise  to  be  the 
bearer  of  a  message  that,  though  startling  in  itself, 
brought  in  reality  the  first  breath  of  freedom  whi"^ 
Therese  had  known  since  the  miserable  night  of  hi 
flight.  The  message  told  of  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band. He  had  died  on  shipboard.  There  was  not 
the  possibility  of  a  mistake.  A  ship  from  America 
was  being  held  in  quarantine,  owing  to  the  death 


248  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

of  several  of  its  passengers.  In  the  printed  list  of 
the  dead  was  the  name  of  "Monsieur  Martin  Les 
Page,  of  New  York,  returning  to  France  after  an 
absence  of  years."  Therese  was  free. 

A  few  weeks  later  a  little  grave  was  made  by 
the  side  of  Mrs.  Newcomb's,  and  the  young  mother 
grieved  anew  for  a  little  life  gone  out. 


During  all  these  weeks  of  intense  feeling  in 
their  own  home-circle,  the  Stevensons  had  also  been 
keehly  alive  to  an  event  of  great  importance  about 
occurring  in  what  they  were  pleased  to  call  "their 
home  church"  in  Burrtonrille.  This  event  appealed 
most  strongly  to  all  who  had  worshiped  years 
ago  in  the  little  log-house.  Not  only  had  that  been 
outgrown,  as  we  have  seen,  but  also  the  "frame" 
structure  which  superseded  it;  and  now  a  really 
elegant  "stone,"  with  all  the  modern  conveniences 
of  lecture,  Sunday-school,  and  class  rooms,  stood 
ready  for  dedication.  And  more,  Dr.  Blank,  an 
te  itor,  who  was  well  known  to  this  people  by  the 
mpting  dish  of  mental  viands  which  he  weekly 
served,  was  to  preach  the  dedicatory  sermon. 
There  were  many  homes  in  Burrtonville  that  would 
gladly  have  opened  to  the  honored  guest ;  but  as  it 
happened  that  this  editor  knew  of  the  brave  young 


ON  BOTH  SIDES  OF  AN  OCEAN          249 

girl  who  but  so  lately  had  gone  from  the  Stevenson 
home,  and  had  met  and  talked  with  the  son  who  was 
preparing  himself  for  his  chosen  life-work,  what 
more  natural  than  that  he  should  desire  to  know 
the  father  and  mother?  He  proved  an  eloquent 
preacher  in  the  pulpit,  and  a  sharp  student  of 
human  nature  in  the  home.  Indeed,  he  had  really 
entered  this  home  as  a  searcher  after  a  cause.  He 
had  seen  the  effect  in  the  two  young  lives  just 
mentioned.  "Did  some  unsuspected  talent,"  he 
asked  himself,  "exist  in  this  plain  father  and 
mother,  which,  perhaps  being  smothered  by  the 
meager  educational  facilities  of  their  early  life,  had 
reappeared  in  their  children  ?"  But  he  had  not  been 
in  the  home  a  day  till  he  thought  he  had  discov- 
ered the  secret.  The  book-shelves  between  the 
flower-filled  windows  had  gently  whispered  in  his 
ear,  calling  his  attention  to  the  well-selected  vol- 
umes with  which  they  were  filled.  Glancing  the 
titles  over,  he  found  they  had  been  culled  from 
every  realm,  and  touched  upon  every  topic  vital  to 
the  interest  of  a  soul,  and  each  book  bore  the 
marks  of  careful  reading. 

From  his  first  entrance  into  the  home,  he  had 
been  strongly  attracted  toward  Edward,  and  think- 
ing to  push  the  acquaintance  with  the  shy,  reticent 
lad,  he  suggested  a  drive  over  the  prairie.  Under 


250  RICHARD  NKWCOMB 

such  circumstances  the  acquaintance  progressed 
rapidly;  for  as  the  shyness  wore  off,  Edward 
proved  himself  so  well  informed,  and  withal  such  a 
good  conversationalist,  that  the  genial  editor  began 
to  feel  as  though  he  was  in  company  with  one  of 
his  compeers  rather  than  a  country  lad.  Just  as 
they  were  nearing  the  edge  of  a  bit  of  woodland, 
Edward  suddenly  drew  rein,  and  unceremoniously 
handing  the  lines  to  his  companion,  sprang  out,  and 
began  at  once  to  carefully  remove  from  the  soil  a 
plant  growing  by  the  roadside.  Lovingly  he 
brought  his  treasure  back.  "It  is,"  said  he  in 
explanation,  "a  good  specimen  of  the  Lymegrass. 
I  needed  just  this  to  make  my  collection  of  grasses 
complete  for  this  locality." 

Now  if  Dr.  Blank  had  one  hobby  above  another, 
it  was  the  study  of  plant-life,  and  these  two,  under 
the  influence  of  this  new  bond,  soon  became  fast 
friends,  the  doctor  waxing  eloquent  in  the  discus- 
sion of  his  favorite  theme,  and  the  boy  listening  as 
under  a  spell,  and  when,  the  next  day,  the  guest  was 
leaving,  he  quietly  wrote  in  his  private  reference- 
book  the  name  of  his  young  friend,  Edward  Ste- 
venson. 

Thanks  to  Louise's  tact  and  influence,  John,  at 
the  opening  of  the  year,  was  ready  and  glad  to  join 
Ruth  and  Edward  in  the  academy ;  but,  practical  as 


ON  BOTH  SIDES  OF  AN  OCEAN          251 

of  old,  he  insisted  on  "picking"  his  studies,  and 
laughed  to  scorn  the  suggestion  of  such  studies  as 
he  deemed  of  very  little  use  in  the  actual  battles 
of  life. 

"Baby  Rose"  was  a  baby  no  longer,  but  was 
fast  becoming  her  mother's  chief  helper.  She  was 
a  quiet,  home-loving  child,  very  like  her  brother 
John  in  appearance.  When  people  saw  her  they 
were  apt  to  say,  "She  will  make  a  sensible,  prac- 
tical woman,"  and,  noticing  her  deft  movements, 
would  be  inclined  to  say  that,  some  day,  in  a  home 
of  her  own  she  would  find  her  sweetest  joy.  She 
is  not  destined  to  thrill  the  worlcf  with  her  music ; 
but  like  her  sister  Ruth,  her  voice  and  touch  chord 
wonderfully  well  with  the  simple  home-tunes,  and 
hearing  her,  her  father  vaguely  recalls  his  own 
mother,  who  is  but  a  shadow  of  memory, — so 
strangely  are  voice  and  form,  yes,  and  mind  and 
soul  characteristics,  handed  down  from  one  gener- 
ation to  another.  Perhaps,  of  all  the  family,  none 
grieved  so  much  as  she  for  Louise. 

She  was  not  old  enough,  as  were  the  others,  to 
comfort  herself  with  the  nobleness  of  the  action,  nor 
yet  to  realize  how  much  good  she  would  do  across 
the  sea.  She  had  been  so  proud  of  her  when  she 
had  come  home  from  the  college,  and  listened  won- 
deringly  at  the  rare  sweet  music  of  her  voice,  her 


252  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

private  opinion  being  that  the  angels  made  no  such 
music.  And  now  she  was  gone,  gone  out  of  her 
life  forever,  and  the  loyal  little  heart  refused  to  be 
comforted.  Before  her  going,  Louise  had  taken 
her  in  her  arms  and  told  her  of  the  many  homeless 
little  girls  whom  she  was  going  to  work  for ;  but  no 
matter  how  dark  she  painted  the  picture,  the  result 
was  the  same, — Rose  clung  almost  wildly  to  the 
sweet  sister  who  was  going. 

Indeed,  the  home  hearts  all  ached.  They  were 
happy  in  the  thought  of  her  usefulness;  but  that 
ill  took  the  place  of  the  sunny,  living  presence. 

As  soon  as  it  had  time  to  reach  them,  a  letter 
came,  which  depicted  the  life  so  plainly,  and  was 
so  rich  in  expressions  of  love,  that  with  its  reading 
the  absent  one  seemed  nearer. 

Perhaps  we  can  not  do  better  than  to  look  in  on 
the  writer. 

The  long,  wearisome  ocean  journey  was  at  last 
ended.  The  missionary  party  consisted  of  Mr. 
Winters  and  his  bride  and  the  English  stranger. 
"It  was  a  good  thing,"  Louise  wrote,  "that  these 
last  were  of  the  party;  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Winters 
were  so  dreadfully  absorbed  in  each  other,  I  might 
as  well  have  been  sailing  in  another  ocean."  A 
mission  was  already  started  in  the  city  of  Foochow, 
and  they  were  to  go  there,  stay  awhile,  get  an  ink- 


ON  BOTH  SIDES  OF  AN  OCEAN          253 

ling  of  the  language,  and  then  push  on  to  the 
interior  province  which  was  to  be  their  work. 

Had  it  not  been  for  that  wonderful  "something" 
that  years  ago,  at  the  plain  altar  of  the  little  home 
church,  had  come  in  and  wondrously  filled  this 
young  heart,  her  soul  must  have  fainted  within  her 
as  she  first  looked  upon  the  unspeakable  degrada- 
tion of  those  she  had  come  to  help.  As  she  went 
through  the  narrow,  reeking  streets,  hunting  for 
days  for  a  lodging-place,  and  for  weeks  for  a  room, 
however  small,  to  begin  the  school,  she  began  to 
experience  the  trial  of  her  faith;  but  there  is  One 
who  has  promised  that  "he  will  never  leave  nor  for- 
sake his  children,"  and  in  those  dark,  early  days  of 
her  missionary  life,  he  wonderfully  verified  the 
promise.  After  a  time  she  learned  the  language 
sufficiently  to  be  able  to  tell  the  simple  "old  story," 
but  it  was  not  always  possible  to  get  listeners. 

One  day  a  miserable  creature,  a  woman,  had 
pushed  her  out  of  the  room  where  she  had  gone  to 
talk  with  her.  About  the  door  swarmed  a  crowd 
of  dirty  children.  Suddenly  the  misery  and 
wretchedness  of  it  all  swept  through  her  mind,  and 
yet  Christ  died  for  these;  and  his  gospel,  if  al- 
lowed to  come  into  these  lives,  would  uplift  them, 
and  cleanse,  not  only  their  souls,  but  their  polluted 
bodies  as  well.  With  a  yearning  perhaps  akin  to 


254  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

that  of  the  Master  when  he  wept  over  Jerusalem, 
this  brave  young  girl  longed  to  help  these  wretched 
ones  into  a  better  life.  As  she  paused,  suddenly 
the  words  and  music  of  a  home  Sunday-school 
hymn  came  into  her  mind,  and  scarcely  conscious 
of  what  she  did,  that  sweet,  rich  voice,  that  had  in 
other  days  held  entranced  the  most  cultured  audi- 
ences, rang  out  on  the  stifling  hot  air.  The  little 
children  stopped  their  play,  wretched  women 
peered  out  from  the  doorway  of  what  they  called 
home,  laborers  stopped  in  the  narrow,  dirty  street, 
and  many  followed  the  "foreign  lady"  to  hear  her 
sing. 

No  need  afterwards  to  hunt  an  audience,  for  the 
audiences  sought  the  singer.  And  yet  in  the  home- 
land there  had  been  those  who  had  grieved  over 
this  buried  talent ! 

About  the  time  that  Commencement  roses  had 
again  begun  to  bloom  in  the  college  campus,  rich 
in  associations  to  both  Asbury  and  Louise,  a  little 
room  in  the  most  crowded  part  of  that  great 
Chinese  city  had  been  obtained,  and  Louise,  as  the 
teacher  of  five  little  Chinese  girls,  felt  her  life-work 
had  begun.  The  Girls'  College  of  Interior  China 
had  been  founded. 


XXI 

Some  Graduates — A  Wedding 

THE  same  June  that  witnessed  the  planting  of 
the  "mustard-seed"  across  the  ocean  was  un- 
usually fraught  with  interest  to  the  Stevenson 
home.  In  the  very  first  weeks,  Edward  and  Ruth 
went  out  from  the  halls  of  the  home  academy, 
and  it  was  conceded  that  among  all  the  long  list 
of  honorable  alumni  which  this  growing  institution 
was  beginning  to  boast,  there  had  not  gone  out 
more  thorough  students  than  this  brother  and  sis- 
ter. The  future  plan  was  that  these  both  should, 
in  the  fall,  attend  the  college  Asbury  was  just 
leaving. 

While  their  graduation  was  of  great  interest  to 
the  home,  yet  it  was  overshadowed  by  something 
that  had  lately  been  whispered  about  in  connection 
with  the  closing  days  of  Asbury's  school-life. 

About  the  last  of  June  he  would  receive  the  bit 
of  parchment,  the  visible  sign  of  that  for  which  he 
had  been  striving.  Then,  instead  of  coming  at 
once  westward,  he  was  to  make  the  journey  east, 
and  in  the  same  rich  old  church  where  perhaps  the 
255 


256  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

echoes  of  his  sister's  voice  still  lingered,  Louise's 
dearest  friend  Emma  was  to  become  his  wife. 

These  were  busy  days  for  both  Rachel  and 
Ruth.  There  were  so  many  tidying  touches  to  be 
given  here  and  there  before  the  sweet  young  bride 
should  arrive,  and  it  was  little  wonder  that,  as  they 
worked,  often  the  tears  would  fall  as  they  thought 
of  the  absent  one  who,  far  away,  amid  surroundings 
they  fek  sure  their  home  eyes  could  not  picture, 
had  in  a  manner  died  to  the  joys  of  the  home. 

"O  yes,"  thought  Rachel,  "if  Louise  were  only 
here,  she,  in  her  own  peculiar  way,  would  lend  a 
charm  to  the  humble  home."  It  must  not  be 
thought  this  mother  gave  her  eldest  daughter 
grudgingly  to  the  Lord's  service.  No,  she  would 
not  have  uttered  the  words  that  would  have  held 
her  back;  but  the  mother-heart  ached,  and  some- 
times the  mother-arms  seemed  unconsciously  to 
again  clasp  this  loved  one  to  her  breast,  and  per- 
haps after  all,  He  who  planted  the  mother-love  did 
not  think  less  of  the  sacrifice  because  it  was  offered 
amid  the  throes  of  an  aching  heart. 

The  morning  of  their  expected  arrival  at  last 
dawned  clear  and  bright.  The  little  cottage  really 
wore  quite  a  holiday  air.  Surveying  her  finished 
work,  practical  Ruth  gave  the  keynote  to  the 
family  feeling  when  she  said,  "We  may  do  what  we 


SOME  GRADUATES — A  WEDDING         257 

will,  and  yet  our  home  can  never  be  anything  like 
the  home  Emma  is  leaving,  and  the  most  we  can 
do  is  to  be  our  own  true  selves  and  give  her  a 
hearty  welcome."  And  they  did,  and  Emma,  child 
of  the  city  as  she  was,  thought  in  all  her  life  she  had 
seen  nothing  so  beautiful  as  the  cheery  home-room, 
with  its  flutter  of  white  curtains  and  odor  of  home- 
grown flowers. 

Emma  was  her  old  sprightly  self.  Not  a  few  of 
her  city  friends  had  drawn  somber-shaded  pictures 
of  the  privations  that  would  be  hers  as  the  wife  of 
a  Western  itinerant.  To  all  this  banter  she  replied 
in  the  same  vein,  adding  she  had  nothing  to  fear. 
Had  she  not  run  the  entire  gamut  of  economy  dur- 
ing the  days  of  her  club  life?  And  if  everything 
else-  failed,  she  had  understood  that  the  West  was 
noted  for  its  fine  potatoes. 

Yes,  she  was  going  willingly  to  share,  as  the 
future  might  prove,  the  joys  or  sorrows,  triumphs 
or  failures,  of  this  young  student.  After  all,  we 
opine  that  there  will  be  but  few  failures. 

Asbury  is  a  close  student.  He  has  strong  con- 
victions of  right  and  wrong.  Aside  from  his  colle- 
giate education,  his  whole  home-life  has  been  one 
long  school,  in  which  the  lessons  of  loyalty  and 
devotion  to  the  Church,  as  well  as  intelligence  con- 
cerning her  history  and  scope,  have  been  well 
17 


258  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

learned.  Moreover,  the  "fathers"  say  he  can 
"preach."  His  chosen  companion  has  both  graces 
of  mind  and  of  person;  besides,  too,  her  natural 
sprightliness  of  disposition  offsets  well  the  sterner 
gravity  of  his  nature. 

One  thing  time  can  never  touch  or  efface,  and 
this  is,  the  deep,  invincible  hatred  which  she  has  in 
her  heart  towards  that  great  evil  which  in  our 
modern  times  is,  like  the  fabled  Gorgon,  living  by 
devouring  our  young  men.  Along  with  this  hatred, 
born  as  we  know  of  a  bitter  experience,  is  a  tender, 
pitying  love  for  the  victims.  It  will  not  be  surpris- 
ing if  the  future  holds  some  special  work  along  this 
line  for  her. 

They  are  to  go  at  once  to  a  far  Western  State, 
and  amid  scenes  new  to  each  are  to  begin  the  solv- 
ing of  their  own  life-problem.  How  happy  they 
are !  How  many  lofty  dreams  for  the  future !  The 
college  orations  have  been  so  full  of  such  flowery 
terms  as  "whitened  fields,"  "awaiting  the  sickle," 
and  such  like,  that  they  imagine  the  future  as  a 
smiling  goddess,  coming  more  than  half  way  to 
meet  them,  her  arms  full  of  bundles  labeled  "Suc- 
cess." Well,  they  are  young!  We  who  are  older 
may  smile,  knowing  well  that  time  will  brush  away 
many  of  these  illusions;  yet  we  would  not  have 
youth  one  whit  less  hopeful. 


SOME  GRADUATES — A  WEDDING         259 

Among  the  guests  who  came  to  do  honor  to  the 
wedding  occasion  was  Earnest  Warren,  Asbury's 
dearest  friend  during  all  his  collegiate  years.  He 
found  the  sweet  home-life  of  the  cottage  very  at- 
tractive. He  has  yet  another  year  in  college,  and 
Ruth,  too,  expects  to  begin  in  September.  We 
should  not  be  a  bit  surprised  if . 

On  the  morning  of  the  departure  of  Asbury  and 
his  young  wife,  Edward  was  surprised  to  receive  a 
communication  which  showed  his  honored  friend, 
the  editor,  had  not  forgotten  him.  There  was  an 
expedition  which  an  association  of  scientists  were 
sending  out,  made  up  of  two  or  three  professors 
from  so  many  colleges,  whose  object  was  to  classify 
and  study  the  flora  of  certain  parts  of  the  North- 
west. He  had  asked  for  and  obtained  a  place  on 
the  expedition  for  Edward.  He  well  knew  how 
much  this  would  mean  to  the  boy,  not  only  the 
association  with  the  learned  men,  but  an  oppor- 
tunity to  push  his  studies  in  plant-life. 

Indeed,  nothing  would  have  pleased  this  staid, 
gray-haired  man  himself  better  than  to  have  joined 
the  expedition  and  taken  the  tramp  with  the  party ; 
but  how  could  he,  with  his  great,  clamorous  "read- 
ing family,"  who  would  never  have  consented  that 
their  mental  purveyor  should  have  gone  off  junket- 
ing and  left  them  to  fare  as  best  they  might?  But 


260  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

he  felt  a  real  boyish  thrill  as  he  sent  the  welcome 
news  to  Edward. 

And  Edward?  If  he  had  suddenly  stumbled 
upon  that  pot  of  gold  which  tradition  has  assigned 
to  the  end  of  the  rainbow,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  surprised  and  delighted.  Being  the  "boy"  of 
the  party,  he  was  assigned  certain  chores,  which,  if 
done,  paid  all  expenses,  and  allowed  him  time  for 
the  prosecution  of  his  favorite  study.  Within  a 
week  after  the  receipt  of  the  letter,  he  had  com- 
pleted his  arrangements  and  was  off. 

How  strangely  still  the  house  was  during  all 
that  summer!  Only  three  children  left  of  the  old, 
romping,  noisy  half-dozen,  and  of  these  three,  John 
and  Rachel  could  not  hope  that  time  would  spare 
them  much  longer;  for,  like  a  hurrying  stream,  it 
was  bearing  them  rapidly  to  the  responsibilities  of 
life.  During  this  summer,  Ruth  and  Rose  greatly 
relieved  the  mother  of  the  cares  of  the  house,  while 
John  the  younger  became  almost  the  sole  manager 
of  the  "store."  There  had  never  been  a  regret 
over  this  last  venture.  It  provided  an  income  suffi- 
cient for  the  needs  of  the  family.  The  home  was 
not  yet  their  own,  but  the  future  seemed  hopeful. 

Relieved  of  care,  the  father  and  mother  began 
to  find  time  for  a  renewal  of  the  old  companionship 
which,  during  the  busy  days  of  the  last  few  years, 


SOME  GRADUATES — A  WEDDING         261 

had  been  largely  lost  in  mutual  anxiety  for  the  wel- 
fare of  their  children.  It  came  to  be  a  very  usual 
sight  for  them  to  be  seen  sitting  either  in  the 
shadow  of  the  vine-covered  porch  or  under  the 
heavy  boughs  of  the  maple  in  the  back  yard. 

Once,  as  William  Newcomb  went  by  hurriedly, 
he  saw  them  thus.  A  bitter  wave  of  feeling  swept 
over  him.  Why  was  his  home  so  desolate,  his 
beautiful  wife  gone,  and  his  son,  the  idol  of  his 
heart,  a  wanderer?  He  knew  that  as  this  con- 
tented pair  talked  together,  more  than  likely  their 
conversation  was  of  their  children,  who  bid  fair  to 
be  the  crown  of  their  old  age.  But  his  heart  an- 
swered this  question.  The  Creator  of  each  could 
not  be  charged  with  partiality.  Centuries  before, 
the  warning  had  been  sounded,  "Whatsoever  a  man 
soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap." 

"Yes,"  he  bitterly  acknowledged  to  himself,  "we 
were  wrong,  all  wrong,  from  beginning  to  end ;  and 
they  of  the  farm  were  right.  Life  should  mean 
more  than  a  struggle  for  riches,  and  there  are  pleas- 
ures more  real,  more  lasting,  than  are  those  which 
appeal  to  the  senses,  or  upon  which  'society' 
stamps  her  approval." 

The  quiet  summer  afforded  an  opportunity,  too, 
for  Ruth  and  Therese  to  get  their  friendship  back 
upon  the  grounds  of  loving  comradeship. 


262  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

Poor  Therese !  It  took  many  loving  words  from 
Ruth  to  convince  her  that  her  life  was  not  irretriev- 
ably ruined.  She  could  readily  see  her  coming  had 
been  a  blessing  to  her  father ;  for  though  the  home 
could  never  again  take  on  its  old  cheery  air,  yet  it 
was  growing  brighter.  The  human  heart  hungers 
for  its  own,  and  William  Newcomb  found  his  life 
happier  as  the  strangely  quiet  woman  who  had 
come  back  to  him,  in  place  of  the  old,  gay,  romping 
Therese,  went  about  the  rooms,  giving  them  here 
and  there  a  home-touch.  Thus  far,  as  she  recog- 
nized her  usefulness  to  her  father,  she  was  glad; 
otherwise  she  was  wont  to  say  she  would  better 
never  have  lived.  Her  sister  Marie,  conscious  of 
her  own  upright  life,  the  honored  wife  of  one  of 
Burrtonville's  wealthiest  young  men,  happy  in  her 
own  home,  proud  of  her  two  sweet  little  children, 
had  not  met  this  young  sister  with  outstretched 
arms ;  indeed,  there  was  that  in  her  haughty  manner 
which  always  reminded  Therese  of  her  disgrace. 
She  had  put  on  the  heaviest  mourning  for  "poor 
mamma,"  had  felt  shocked  over  "papa's  failure," 
and  now,  to  have  Therese  come  straggling  in,  and 
bring  the  matter  back  fresh  into  the  minds  of  all, 
seemed  too  much.  Better,  much  better,  would  it 
have  been,  she  thought,  if  Therese  had  borne  her 
troubles  in  silence.  Let  us  not  judge  of  her 


SOME  GRADUATES — A  WEDDING         263 

harshly.  She  was  only  a  selfish  society  woman, 
eager  for  the  praise  of  her  little  world,  as  vapid  as 
herself. 

"No,  no,  Ruth,"  Therese  was  saying,  as  she  and 
Ruth  talked  together;  "you  know  all  about  it.  I 
can  not  undo  the  past;  my  life  is  ruined.  I  am 
really  fit  for  nothing.  I  have  no  education.  I  have 
learned  a  little  smattering  of  several  things,  but  I 
know  nothing  thoroughly.  I  never  learned  even 
to  do  housework  as  you  did.  For  such  a  person, 
I  see  now  all  too  clearly,  there  is  no  place  in  all  this 
busy  world.  Even  if  it  were  not  for  my  miserable 
marriage,  I  should  have  to  write  'failure'  over  my 
life." 

And  the  hopeless  manner  in  which  she  folded 
her  arms,  and  looked  over  toward  the  gleaming 
stones  in  the  not  far-distant  cemetery,  spoke  more 
eloquently  than  could  words  of  the  despair  she  felt 
in  her  heart. 

Ruth  had  no  words  for  reply;  but  she  gently 
kissed  her,  and  said,  as  she  was  leaving:  "You  may 
feel  thus  now,  but  nevertheless  I  am  sure  there  is  a 
future  for  you,  and  in  it  you  will  find  your  work 
and  your  happiness ;  and  in  the  years  to  come  you 
will  look  upon  these  unhappy  years  as  a  dream." 

That  evening,  Ruth  gave  the  substance  of  the 
conversation  to  her  mother.  Rachel  was  lost  in 


264  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

thought  for  a  time.  Finally  she  said :  "Therese  is 
right  in  one  thing.  She  has  not  sufficient  educa- 
tion for  a  successful  life.  I  do  not  mean  the  mere 
knowledge  one  gains  from  text-books ;  for  there  are 
those  whom  circumstances  have  kept  them  from 
the  schools  who,  by  perseverance,  have  largely 
made  up  for  this  lack,  and  have  given  themselves  a 
broader  and  truer  outlook  of  life.  Something  of 
this  kind  is  what  Therese  needs,  something  that 
will  lift  her  out  of  herself.  Do  you  remember  the 
strategy  Louise  used,  to  interest  John,  and  how 
thankful  we  all  are  of  the  result?" 

We  can  not  stop  to  detail  the  steps  with  which 
Ruth  began  at  once  to  bring  about  this  result.  She 
carefully  selected  the  books  she  hoped  would  in- 
terest Therese,  and  read  her  paragraphs  from  them. 
All  this  judiciously,  that  she  might  not  suspect 
her  design.  Finally,  when  she  thought  the  time 
ripe,  she  suggested  a  home-course  of  study,  this 
under  cover  of  a  desire  to  review  some  of  her 
own  studies,  and  before  Therese  realized  it,  the 
horror  of  the  old  life  was  slipping  away,  and  her 
active  young  brain  was  awakening  to  the  interests 
of  the  great  throbbing  world,  which  from  the  days 
of  Adam  has  ever  found  a  place  for  each  earnest 
worker  that  has  knocked  at  its  portals.  Aside  from 
the  educational  need,  Ruth  felt  sure  Therese  would 


SOMB  GRADUATES — A  WEDDING         265 

never  fully  drop  her  burdens  till  they  were  lost  in  a 
living  Christian  faith.  Here  again,  if  she  would  be 
successful,  she  dared  not  be  obtrusive;  but  before 
the  summer  ended,  a  slight,  shrinking  little  figure, 
heavily  clad  in  black,  was  found  each  Sabbath  by 
Ruth's  side  in  the  Stevenson  pew,  and  to  the  gentle 
ministry  of  this  young  Christian,  who,  years  ago, 
in  the  little  log-church,  had  found  how  sweet  it 
was  to  lose  her  life  in  His,  we  may  safely  leave 
for  a. time  this  childhood  friend,  trusting  her  to 
impart  something  of  her  own  simple  faith. 


XXII 

September — A  Letter 

SEPTEMBER  is  always  a  busy  month.  During 
its  days  the  summer  idlers,  as  well  as  the  sum- 
mer resters,  return — the  one,  to  listen  again  to  the 
alluring  yet  wearying  calls  of  society;  the  Other, 
to  take  up  the  burdens  of  life  afresh  in  the  office, 
the  pulpit,  or  at  the  desk. 

The  schoolhouses  that,  during  the  hot,  dusty 
months,  have  stood  with  their  doors  closed,  now 
have  them  flung  wide  open,  and  from  all  over  the 
land,  in  country,  town,  and  city,  a  long  procession 
of  little  feet  take  up  the  march,  and  in  a  twinkling, 
these  empty,  gaunt,  sentinel-like  buildings,  wear- 
ing an  hour  ago  an  air  of  complete  desertion,  are 
teeming  with  life. 

The  quickening  life-blood,  too,  pulsates  through 
the  great  halls  of  the  colleges,  and  homes  are  yield- 
ing to  them  their  choicest  treasures.  If  it  were 
possible,  they  would  gladly  retain  them  longer. 
But  no ;  there  is  nothing  so  necessary  as  that  they 
be  prepared  for  the  inevitable  future.  So  they  bid 
them  God-speed,  sending,  as  a  charge  to  the  college 

266 


SEPTEMBER — A  LETTER  267 

that  receives  them,  this  message  from  the  poet- 
king:  "See  to  it  that  our  sons  may  be  as  plants 
grown  up  in  their  youth;  that  our  daughters  may 
be  as  corner-stones,  polished  after  the  similitude  of 
a  palace." 

Edward  Stevenson  returned  from  his  summer 
jaunt  of  work  and  pleasure  as  rugged  and  brown 
as  though  he  had  been  harvesting  on  the  old  farm 
acres.  These  weeks  had  meant  much  to  him, 
much  in  the  every-day  association  with  men  of 
education  and  culture.  He  had  also  been  a  careful 
student,  and  had  often  surprised  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  party  by  his  accurate  knowledge  of 
plant  habits.  During  the  summer  he  was  of  great 
use  in  classifying  and  arranging  the  flora  of  the 
localities  they  studied,  and  in  addition  brought 
home  a  really  excellent  collection  of  his  own. 
Something  else  happened,  which,  because  of  its 
bearing  upon  his  future,  deserves  mention.  This 
was  the  publication  of  his  first  article.  His  editor 
friend  had  said  to.  him :  "Now,  if  this  jaunt  has  any 
interesting  incidents  that  you  think  would  read 
well,  write  them  up  and  send  them  to  me.  I  won't 
promise  to  publish;  but  you  know,"  with  that 
twinkle  of  the  eye  Edward  had  come  to  know,  "we 
are  always  after  the  best." 

To  Edward  the  whole  seemed  full  of  interest,  so 


268  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

he  wrote  up  a  modest  little  account  of  a  few  days' 
work,  naming  his  brain-child,  "After  Some 
Flowers,"  and  in  course  of  time  it  was  published. 
He  managed  to  live  through  the  sensation  of  first 
seeing  it  in  print,  and  (though  he  would  never  have 
supposed  it)  life  went  on  quite  as  usual.  Of  course, 
Mother  Rachel  read  it,  and  like  another  mother, 
as  she  thought  of  his  future,  "she  kept  these  things 
and  pondered  them  in  her  heart." 

But  now  he  was  home ;  yes,  and  his  belongings, 
as  were  Ruth's,  were  packed,  and  as  Asbury  and 
Louise  had  gone  years  ago,  so  these  were  going  to 
the  same  college.  How  vividly  that  other  Septem- 
ber came  back,  as,  with  a  hurried  benediction  and 
prayer,  these  two  left  the  home! 

Rachel  had  been  called  to  the  gate  by  the  de- 
parting party  to  answer  a  question.  As  she  started 
to  return  to  the  house,  a  sharp  gust  of  wind  rattled 
the  great  tree  by  the  path,  and  blew  from  its 
branches  a  nest  which  in  the  spring  had  been  a 
perpetual  source  of  delight,  with  its  wealth  of  young 
bird-life.  "Ah,  well;  perhaps  it  is  only  natural," 
thought  Rachel  through  her  tears,  "that  young 
birds  should  fly;  but  how  desolate  they  leave  the 
nest!" 

And  desolate,  indeed,  seemed  the  home.  It  was 
useless  to  put  on  a  mask  and  feign  a  cheerfulness 


SEPTEMBER — A  LETTER  269 

neither  parent  felt.  Yes,  the  young  birds  were 
flying,  and  with  them  much  of  the  cheer  of  the 
home-life.  Edward  and  Ruth  had  left  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  as  they  gathered  about  the  small  table  for 
the  noon  meal,  the  mother  broke  down,  and  gave 
up  trying  to  hide  her  sense  of  loss.  As  she  lay  on 
the  couch  in  the  room,  her  youngest  son  said : 

"Mother,  do  n't  grieve.  You  have  at  least  one 
child  who  will  remain  at  home.  I  never  intend  to 
leave." 

"Nor  I,"  chimed  in  Rose;  and  they  kept  their 
word. 

John  had  yet  another  year  in  the  academy.  The 
last  few  months  had  witnessed  a  wonderful  change 
in  the  sun-browned  boy  of  the  farm.  He  was  not 
the  same  pattern  with  his  ministerial  brother  As- 
bury,  nor  yet  of  the  closer  student  Edward;  but 
in  his  own  practical  way  was  likely  to  be  as  useful 
as  either. 

The  boys  and  girls  of  this  family  were  all  of 
good  physique,  well  formed,  and  with  suppleness  of 
grace  that  indicates  the  sensibly-reared  family  of 
young  people.  This  was  particularly  true  of  John. 
He  was  a  great,  tall,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  with 
dark  eyes  and  hair  to  match.  The  latter,  with  its 
soft,  wavy  curl,  would  have  been  the  envy  of  a 
modern  belle.  His  voice  was  very  like  his-  father's, 


270  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

with  a  gentle  cadence  that  made  it  peculiarly  ac- 
ceptable either  in  sickness  or  anxiety,  and  his 
touch  was  as  gentle  as  a  woman's.  Like  Louise, 
he  had  always  been  particularly  helpful,  indoors  as 
well  as  out.  About  every  home  there  are  always 
numberless  little  "turns"  by  which,  if  willing  to  do 
them,  a  man  can  wonderfully  lighten  the  household 
cares.  Those  in  the  Stevenson  home  came  natu- 
rally to  be  left  for  John.  It  was  understood,  when 
this  last  academic  year  was  finished,  he  would  as- 
sume the  entire  management  of  the  "store." 

He  was  also  fast  becoming  of  great  use  in  the 
Church,  though  naturally  shy.  As  the  result  of  a 
conversation  with  Louise  before  her  going,  he  had 
begun  using  his  talents,  and  was  developing  as  only 
young  Christians  who  can  do  this,  yet  his  practical 
views  of  life  were  shown  here  as  elsewhere.  About 
a  year  before  this  he  had  heard  a  sermon  on  "Giv- 
ing," which  greatly  impressed  him.  As  a  result  he 
resolved  to  keep  a  careful  account  of  his  expenses, 
and  "pay  over,"  as  he  termed  it,  the  tenth.  When 
the  question  of  finances  came  up  in  the  Church,  his 
views  were  always  so  correct,  that  unconsciously 
these  matters  came  to  be  left  more  and  more  to 
him,  and  though  the  problem  of  Church  finances 
was  often  perplexing,  yet  he  came  nearer  its  solu- 
tion than  any  one  else. 


SEPTEMBER — A  LETTER  271 

While  we  have  been  lingering  thus  long,  taking 
a  final  peep  at  the  home  that  has  so  interested  us, 
the  students  have  been  adjusting  themselves  to  the 
year's  work. 

They  did  not  enter  the  college  as  strangers ;  for 
their  elder  brother  and  sister  had  left  a  fragrant 
memory,  and  they  were  not  long  in  finding  their 
own  niche  in  this  busy  hive  of  workers. 

Edward's  tastes  inclined  him  to  pay  special  heed 
to  the  sciences.  As  for  Ruth,  she  continued  the 
same  thorough,  painstaking  student  the  home  acad- 
emy had  known. 

This  year,  with  its  routine  of  study,  proved  un- 
eventful, but  was  none  the  less  successful  on  that 
account. 

The  latter  part  of  the  winter  was  remarkable  for 
a  religious  awakening,  which  spread  until  nearly  all 
of  the  several  hundred  students  who  were  not  al- 
ready professing  Christians  were  converted.  None 
who  went  through  these  strange  weeks  could  ever 
forget  them.  The  "fathers"  might  tell  of  the  old- 
time  camp-meeting,  with  its  rapturous  shouts  and 
fervent  Amens ;  yet  this  more  modern  movement, 
having  its  birth  and  carried  on  amid  those  who 
were  nothing  if  not  cultured,  was  not  vastly  differ- 
ent. There  was  the  old-time  conviction  of  sin,  and 
if  one  might  judge  from  the  radiant  faces,  there  was 


272  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

the  old-time  realization  of  one's  own  personal  ac- 
ceptance. 

During  all  these  weeks,  Edward  Stevenson  was 
strangely  wrought  upon.  For  years  he  had  never 
questioned  his  personal  relationship  to  his  Savior; 
but  his  tastes  and  inclinations  were  quiet,  and  he 
had  never  taken  an  active  part  in  the  Church.  But 
now — perhaps  it  was  the  result  of  the  wonderful 
prayer-meetings  among  the  young  men ;  perhaps  it 
was  the  influence  of  his  favorite  professor,  who 
made  it  a  point  to  bring  out  and  interest  every 
young  man  within  his  reach  (alas !  that  in  his  col- 
lege days,  Richard  Newcomb  had  not  known  such 
a  friend), — but  whatever  the  cause,  he  suddenly  de- 
veloped genuine  leadership,  and  until  the  close  of 
the  meetings  his  voice  was  constantly  heard  in 
prayer  and  exhortation,  so  much  so  that  a  short 
time  after  their  close  he  was  given  a  .license  to 
preach.  When  this  news  was  carried  home,  his 
father  and  mother  could  scarcely  credit  it.  "No,  I 
can  not  take  it  in,"  was  his  mother's  comment; 
"yet  I  should  be  glad  if  this  should  prove  his  life- 
work."  But  John  said:  "The  idea!  If  Edward 
should  happen  to  have  a  book  on  hands  he  was  in- 
terested in,  he  would  certainly  forget  any  appoint- 
ment to  preach  which  he  might  have." 

Thus  fraught  with  duties,  the  weeks  went  by 


SEPTEMBER — A  LETTER  273 

until  the  coming  of  June,  when  the  home  at  Burr- 
tonville  again  smiled  a  welcome  to  its  student  in- 
mates. Edward  came  home  only  for  a  brief  visit, 
as  he  had  been  offered  work  in  an  editorial  office. 
This  did  not  promise  to  be  nearly  so  interesting  as 
his  last  summer's  jaunt ;  but  though  he  little 
thought  it,  this  became  the  ground-work  upon 
which  his  future  largely  rested. 

Before  Ruth's  return,  she  wrote  her  parents  that 
she  had  something  to  tell  them  which  she  could 
not  write.  They  easily  guessed  her  sweet  secret, 
and  it  took  only  a  glance  at  the  plain  gold  band 
which  she  wore  upon  her  return  to  confirm  their 
suspicion.  This  had  been  Earnest  Warren's  last 
year  in  college.  It  was  little  wonder  that  he  desired 
to  win  for  himself  this  young  girl,  whose  gentle, 
gracious  ways,  as  he  had  seen,  had  made  her  pres- 
ence in  her  father's  home  a  benediction.  He  had 
expected  to  enter  the  ministry,  but  he  had  been 
offered  a  position  as  teacher  in  a  young  college. 
This  seemed  to  suit  his  present  inclination,  and  it 
was  arranged  that  in  a  year  or  two  he  would  claim 
his  bride. 

The  memory  of  Ruth's  successful  school-term 
still  lingered  in  the  home  neighborhood,  so  much 
so  that  she  was  offered  a  position  as  one  of  the 

teachers  in  the  home  academy.     She  finally  reluc- 
18 


274  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

tantly  concluded  to  forego  another  collegiate  year, 
yet  she  did  not  mean  her  education  to  cease;  for 
she  began  a  course  of  home-study  and  pursued  it 
unweariedly. 

Very  often  at  this  time  the  thoughts  of  both 
Ruth  and  her  mother  turned  with  a  new  tenderness 
to  that  brave  one  so  many  miles  away.  Until  now, 
Ruth  had  not  realized  what  the  anguish  of  Louise 
must  have  been  when  she  had  seen  her  happiness 
shipwrecked;  but  this  realization  began  to  dawn 
upon  her  when,  in  answer  to  a  letter  telling  of 
her  new-found  happiness  and  plans,  there  had  at 
once  come  one  from  Louise,  breathing  earnest 
wishes  for  the  continuance  of  her  happiness.  Al- 
though she  spoke  hopefully  of  her  work,  and  wrote 
touchingly  of  the  degradation  about  her,  yet  amid 
it  all  there  was  an  undertone  of  sadness,  as  if  the 
writer  had  looked  into  the  coffin  of  a  dead  joy, 
and  this  the  mother  recognized,  and  yearned  afresh 
for  the  blithe  "singing  bird"  of  the  home ;  but  she 
said  over  and  over  again  in  her  heart,  "She  did 
right;  yes,  she  did  right."  But  alas!  for  the  pity 
of  it! 


XXIII 

A  Kansas  Preacher — His  Work 

IF  one  who  happened  to  be  of  a  speculative  turn 
of  mind  had  chanced  to  find  himself  on  a  certain 
western-bound  passenger  train  one  day,  two  sum- 
mers before  the  events  of  the  last  chapter,  he  would 
have  looked  with  considerable  interest  upon  a 
young  pair  who  seemed  very  much  at  home  amid 
their  surroundings.  There  was  about  each  a  quiet, 
well-bred  air,  and  a  something  that  proclaimed 
them  fresh  from  their  books.  In  addition  to  this, 
there  was  also  an  air  of — well,  if  not  exactly  self- 
complacency,  at  least  of  self-satisfaction.  Further, 
if  the  onlooker,  bearing  the  proper  credentials  in 
his  face,  had,  with  the  freedom  of  travelers,  engaged 
the  young  man  in  conversation,  he  would  have 
learned  that  the  pair  in  whom  he  was  interested 
was  the  Rev.  Asbury  Stevenson  and  wife,  late  of 
an  Eastern  college;  that  during  the  last  weeks  of 
the  college  year  a  presiding  elder  of  one  of  the 
frontier  districts  in  Kansas  had  written  the  Faculty 
to  name  a  young  man  who  could  take  charge  of  a 
small  "station"  (considerable  emphasis  on  that 
275 


276  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

word)  on  his  district,  "where  the  principal  work 
would  be  to  build  up  the  charge,  even  to  the 
church-building  itself,"  and  from  that  correspond- 
ence had  come  this  journey.  Their  destination  was 
Falls  City,  which  city,  the  young  divine  explained, 
took  its  name  from  being  built  upon  a  river  by 
that  name. 

"Ahem !  and  have  you  ever  built  a  church  ? 
Know  anything  about  it?"  the  interrogator  might 
have  asked. 

"No;  but — "  Here  the  Rev.  Mr.  Stevenson 
would  have  paused,  and  in  some  inexplicable  way 
one  would  have  gotten  the  impression  that  half  a 
dozen  such  undertakings  would  be  a  matter  of 
small  importance  to  this  brave  youth. 

We,  too,  will  watch  these  young  travelers 
awhile.  In  a  little  while  their  train  has  reached  that 
young  stripling  of  a  city,  which  to  the  traveler 
seems  only  the  place  where  all  the  inhabitants  of 
the  nation  are  all  at  once  engaged  in  the  frantic 
effort  to  change  cars  and  make  no  mistake,  but 
which  the  native  residents  tell  us  is  really  one  of 
the  finest  cities  in  the  world,  hence  call  it  Kansas 
City.  Here  two  alternatives  were  offered:  They 
might  continue  their  journey  westward  at  once 
on  a  freight-car,  or  they  might  remain  until  morn- 
ing and  take  a  "passenger."  Life  thus  far  had  held 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK        277 

no  freight-car  experiences,  so  they  continued  their 
journey  at  once,  and  as  a  result  of  their  decision 
continued  it  for  many  long  wearisome  hours,  even 
until  they  of  the  later  "passenger"  had  jauntily 
passed  them  by. 

They  were  to  go  to  a  "young  city"  (they  had 
left  the  "towns"  all  east  of  the  Mississippi),  west  of 
Topeka,  and  thence  south  fifty  miles  in  a  stage. 

"The  whole  country  looks  as  if  it  were  unfin- 
ished," was  Mrs.  Asbury's  comment,  as  she  peered 
out  of  the  car-window.  And  so  it  did.  There  were 
miles  and  miles  of  green  prairie,  with  not  a  single 
trace  of  a  living  being,  unless  one  should  make  an 
exception  of  the  colonies  of  that  queer  nondescript 
animal,  the  prairie-dog,  who,  from  his  point  of  van- 
tage, barked  sharp,  emphatic  little  protests  against 
the  lumbering,  cumbersome  engine,  which  puffed 
and  snorted  on  its  wearisome  way,  protesting,  in 
its  turn,  over  the  task  set  it  of  dragging  up  a  steep 
grade  a  train  of  cars  none  too  few  for  two  of  its 
kind. 

The  sun  beat  remorselessly  down,  with  not  a 
tree  in  sight.  Once  in  a  while  they  of  the  caboose 
would  catch  in  the  distance  a  sight  of  a  sort  of 
green  fringe,  and  the  accommodating  brakesman 
(who  had  recognized  a  fine  specimen  of  the  genus 
"tenderfoot")  would  volunteer  the  information  that 


278  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

"we  were  coming  to  the  'timber,'  "  or  that  we  were 
crossing  Blank  River.  But  the  utmost  straining 
of  the  eye  revealed  only  a  growth  of  underbrush 
and  some  very  scrubby  "scrub-oaks."  Of  the  old, 
spreading  beeches,  the  stately  oaks,  and  the  grace- 
ful maples  and  poplars,  there  were  none.  And  the 
"river" — the  modest  "creek"  back  of  the  Stevenson 
farm  would  have  rippled  and  plashed  in  disdain  at 
a  hint  of  equality. 

At  intervals  there  would  be  a  little  cluster  of 
unpainted,  box-like  houses,  that  stood  out  upon  the 
prairie,  with  the  tall  grass  waving  in  the  very  door- 
way. About  these  were  invariably  clustered  a  pa- 
thetic group  of  women  and  little  children.  About 
the  little  station  were  men  in  very  broad-brimmed 
hats,  who  eyed  the  passing  train  with  such  an  air 
of  proprietorship,  that  one  would  have  supposed 
they  lived  but  for  the  one  object  of  seeing  it  pull  in. 

At  last  the  railway  part  of  the  journey  came  to 
an  end,  and  as  the  Rev.  Asbury  was  leaving  the 
freight,  he  looked  rather  lugubrious  as  he  did  some 
careful  brushing  of  his  lovely  "silk  tile."  But  the 
real  pleasure  began  with  the  stage-ride.  Such 
beauty!  The  grass  was  so  green,  and  was  as  soft 
as  any  of  Mrs.  Ward's  elegant  carpets.  One  novel 
feature  was  the  undulating  swells  of  the  prairies, 
which  were  not  unlike  the  waves  of  the  ocean. 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK       279 

Here  and  there  great  herds  of  cattle  pastured,  and 
O,  the  flowers !  They  were  of  every  form  and  hue, 
and  before  the  journey  was  half  completed,  both 
of  the  young  people  were  in  love  with  their  adopted 
State. 

"It  seems  to  me  it  is  rather  a  windy  day,"  re- 
marked Emma,  as  she  drew  her  wrap  about  her. 
The  driver  smiled,  and  murmured  something  about 
"Kansas  zephyrs,"  which  phrase  she  grew  to  know 
more  about  later  on.  A  little  purple  cloud  lay  very 
innocently  in  the  western  sky,  upon  perceiving 
which,  Asbury  noticed  that  the  driver  whipped  up 
his  ponies,  and  kept  them  at  a  break-neck  pace, 
eyeing  the  cloud  in  the  meanwhile. 

At  last,  in  a  relieved  tone,  he  exclaimed,  "We  '11 
make  it!"  Half  an  hour  later  they  were  clattering 
up  the  streets  of  what  seemed  a  very  tiny  village, 
that  had  lost  itself  in  immeasurable  distances.  The 
wind  was  blowing  quite  a  gale ;  but  the  driver  man- 
aged to  say,  "There  is  our  new  court-house,  and 
there  our  schoolhouse."  There  was  something  in 
the  very  tone  which  implied  expected  admiration; 
but  it  was  now  growing  dark  rapidly.  As  the  trav- 
elers started  to  go  from  the  stage  to  the  hotel,  a 
great  wind  lifted  the  elegant  "tile"  from  the  head 
of  the  Rev.  Asbury  and  sent  it  whirling  down  the 
street.  It  was  useless  to  follow  it,  though  he  half 


s8o  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

started  to  do  so.  Afterwards  he  called  this  his  first 
"concession ;"  for  the  next  morning  he  purchased  a 
regulation,  broad-brimmed  "slouch,"  and  it  was 
many  a  day  before  he  owned  a  counterpart  of  the 
first. 

They  were  barely  housed  when  the  rain  was  fall- 
ing in  torrents,  and  the  thunder — nothing  like  it 
had  ever  been  heard  before.  They  afterwards 
learned  this  was  a  peculiarity  of  the  climate.  Na- 
ture was  wont  to  act  as  if  she  had  an  extra  amount 
of  work,  which  must  be  accomplished  on  schedule 
time.  The  rain  would  fall  in  torrents,  thunders 
crash,  and  lightning  play  in  a  most  terrific  manner ; 
but  in  an  hour  the  earth  would  be  bright  and  smil- 
ing after  her  bath,  and  the  roads  as  hard  as  a  floor. 

Perhaps,  though,  the  loyal  "old  inhabitant," 
who  stood  on  the  veranda  of  the  little  frame  "Con- 
tinental Hotel"  enjoying  the  Rev.  Asbury's  sur- 
prise, held  the  true  solution  to  the  matter  when  he 
said :  "There  's  a  heap  of  folks  who  jist  won't  have 
any  faith  in  Kansas,  and  about  so  often  nature  has 
to  git  up  a  spree  like  this  jist  to  let  all  sich  know 
she's  all  right." 

Early  the  next  morning  the  young  minister 
hunted  up  the  "brethren,"  in  order  to  arrange  the 
preliminaries  for  getting  to  housekeeping  in  shape. 
In  connection  with  this  "hunt"  he  had  an  experi- 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK       281 

ence    which    he    did    not    soon    forget.      He    had 

brought  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  Brother  D , 

who  had  been  represented  as  one  of  the  "pillars" 
upon  which  the  whole  church  edifice,  spiritual  and 
temporal,  was  supposed  to  lean.  To  find  Mr. 

D became,  then,  his  first  care.     Perhaps  his 

inquiry  was  misunderstood,  and  perhaps  he  became 
the  victim  of  a  Western  joker  (there  were  such) ; 
at  any  rate,  instead  of  going  to  the  business-house 
of  the  respectable  and  highly-recommended 
Brother  D ,  he  made  his  way  to  the  grocery- 
store  of  another  Mr.  D ,  of  similar  name,  who 

could  scarcely  be  called  a  "Church  pillar,"  but  who 
was  a  good  type  of  a  hustling,  godless,  business 
man,  not  uncommon  at  tihat  date,  upon  whose  lips 
profanity  was  at  home. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  this  gentleman  'had 
been  in  a  towering  passion,  ever  since  the  storm  of 
the  evening  before,  over  a  consignment  of  grocer- 
ies that  were  being  "teamed"  from  the  railroad, 
and  which  'had  arrived  that  morning  thoroughly 
soaked.  The  air  about  him  was  just  becoming  a 
little  clarified,  though  here  and  there  a  streak  of 
sulphur  remained,  when  the  youthful  minister  pre- 
sented himself,  and,  sure  of  a  welcome  (remember- 
ing, perhaps,  the  welcome  his  parents  were  wont 
to  give  their  ministerial  callers),  advanced  with 


282  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

smiling  countenance  and  outstretched  palm,  and 
announced  himself  as  "Your  preacher."  Mr. 

D rose  from  the  box  of  wet  starch  he  was 

opening,  scanned  the  face  for  a  moment,  and  ex- 
claimed, "My  preacher!"  But  the  Rev.  Asbury's 
ears  were  polite,  and  so  are  my  reader's ;  but  in  one 
little  minute  all  of  Rev.  Asbury's  preconceived 
notions  of  a  "Church  pillar"  went  toppling.  Ex- 
planations were  finally  made,  and  in  course  of  time 

the  right  Mr.  D was  found.    Perhaps  it  might 

not  be  amiss  to  say  in  passing  that  the  "joke"  got 
out,  and  for  a  long  time  the  Rev.  Asbury  was 

pointed  out  as  "Old  Jo  D 's  preacher."     "Old 

Jo"  himself  (he  really  was  n't  old — only  in  sin) 
came  to  feel  a  sort  of  proprietorship  in  the  evidently 
sincere  and  zealous  young  man. 

With  this  possible  exception,  both  Rev.  Asbury 
and  his  wife  received  a  hearty  greeting  from  all. 
It  came  to  be  a  little  amusing,  when  it  was  observed 
that,  with  each  new  presentation,  before  the  con- 
versation closed,  the  invariable  question  was  asked, 
"You  have  of  course  seen  our  new  court-house 
and  school-building?"  and  the  tone  implied  that 
not  to  have  done  so  and  be  able  to  admire  was 
unpardonable.  It  appeared  that  one  of  the  first 
acts  of  the  baby  city  had  been  to  vote  bonds,  and, 
utilizing  the  fine  building-stone  that  abounded  in 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK        283 

every  hill,  had  built  a  really  fine  court-house  and 
school-building,  which  stood  on  the  actual  prairie, 
the  pride  of  every  man  in  the  city,  who  looked  upon 
them  as  the  forerunners  of  the  great  city  that  was 
to  be.  They  also  served  other  purposes  than  those 
planned  in  the  original.  Done  in  lithographs,  they 
tickled  the  fancy  and  unloosened  the  purses  of 
Eastern  capitalists.  Besides  these,  the  town  con- 
sisted of  a  business  street  and  a  few  of  the  box-like 
houses  they  had  noticed  along  the  railway. 

During  the  forenoon  the  Rev.  Asbury,  with  a 
volunteer  guide,  a  member  of  his  Church,  started, 
with  considerable  expectancy,  to  the  site  of  the  new 
church.  The  letter  describing  the  enterprise  had 
read  something  like  this :  "We  are  not  strong 
numerically,  but  the  imperative  need  is  a  church- 
building.  This  we  must  have  to  hold  our  share  of 
the  incoming  population.  Such  an  enterprise  has 
been  begun,  but  abandoned.  We  have  the  finest 
site  in  the  city.  The  foundation  is  laid,  a  part  of 
the  building  material  is  on  the  ground,  and  we 
must  have  an  active  young  man  to  push  the  work." 
It  all  sounded  so  well,  and  this  ministerial  fledgling 
started  out  fully  expecting  to  find  the  workmen 
hammering  away  upon  a  building  that  would  match 
the  court-house  and  school. 

As  the  walk  progressed,  and  house  after  house 


284  RICHARD  NBWCOMB 

was  left  behind,  his  anxiety  increased.  Finally  he 
struck  what  seemed  the  open  prairie;  but  had  he 
been  familiar  with  the  map  of  the  city  he  would 
have  known  that  he  still  was  in  its  very  heart.  At 
last  his  companion  stopped,  exclaiming,  "Here  we 
are!"  "Here  is  what?"  Asbury  asked.  "The 
church-building."  Involuntarily  he  rubbed  his 
eyes.  In  front  of  him  was  a  tall,  rank  mass  of  what 
seemed  bushy  weeds,  which  he  had  already  learned 
was  the  native  sunflower.  Peering  through  these, 
he  saw  that  an  excavation  had  been  made  and  a 
few  foundation-stones  placed  in  position.  From  ap- 
pearances it  perhaps  had  been  begun,  and  most  cer- 
tainly abandoned.  The  "building  material  on 
hand"  was  represented  by  a  pile  of  native  stone, 
also  sunflower  overgrown. 

"You  have  your  subscriptions  all  right?"  As- 
bury asked,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  strange  even  to 
himself. 

"Umph !  that 's  what  we  sent  for  you  for.  Now, 
young  man,  do  you  think  you  can  build  this 
church  ?"  and  his  interlocutor  turned  a  critical  look 
upon  him.  "Because  if  you  can't,  you  had  better 
take  the  first  stage  east." 

Asbury  did  not  answer,  but  on  the  walk  back 
he  did  some  hard  thinking.  Strangely  enough,  this 
was  something  even  his  young  wife  could  not  help 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK        285 

him  to  decide.  To  sum  it  all  up,  he  saw  clearly 
what  was  expected  of  him.  He  was  to  preach 
twice  each  Sabbath,  a  formidable  undertaking  in 
itself;  take  a  subscription  of  strangers;  many  of 
them  not  connected  with  any  Church ;  and  person- 
ally superintend  every  detail  of  a  work  he  knew 
nothing  about. 

As  his  chronicler,  I  am  glad  to  write  that  at  this 
point  what  in  the  home  neighborhood  was  known 
as  the  "sturdy  common  sense  of  the  Stevensons" 
asserted  itself.  Things  were  not  as  he  had  ex- 
pected; "but  God  helping  him,  he  would  not  fail." 
Sweeping  through  his  mind  came  innumerable  in- 
stances, of  which  he  had  read,  of  the  heroic  efforts 
of  others  to  plant  the  Church  elsewhere.  Indeed, 
was  not  his  own  sister  meeting  every  day  discour- 
agements far  greater  than  any  that  could  confront 
him?  He  remembered  how,  as  he  had  sat  about 
the  glowing  fire  in  the  comfortable  farm  home,  he 
had  been  thrilled  as  he  had  read  of  the  heroic  en- 
durance of  those  who  had  braved  Indian  dangers 
on  the  frontier.  It  had  all  seemed  so  grand  then. 
Should  he  yield  till  every  known  means  had  been 
tried  ? 

"No!"  and  though  the  little  handful  who  called 
themselves  the  "Church"  little  guessed  it,  their 
coveted  new  church  was  as-  truly  built  in  that  hour 


286  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

of  introspection  on  the  part  of  the  young  pastor  as 
it  was  a  year  later,  when  a  delighted  audience  gath- 
ered to  hear  the  dedicatory  sermon. 

At  length  a  little  house,  very  much  of  a  pattern 
with  the  rest,  was  procured,  and  the  home-life  be- 
gun. There  were  a  few  elegant  "touches"  from 
the  old  luxurious  home  of  Emma ;  but  after  the  last 
piece  of  the  plain  furniture  was  in  place,  Emma 
exclaimed,  "Now,  if  Louise  and  I  had  only  known 
it,  Mrs.  Hoyson's  home  was  elegance  itself."  But 
what  if  it  was  plain?  They  were  rich  in  love  for 
each  other,  rich  in  hope  for  the  future  and  in  con- 
secration of  their  young  lives  to  the  work. 

Emma  never  forgot  her  first  Sabbath.  A  kind 
of  hall  above  one  of  the  business  houses  was  being 
used  as  a  place  of  worship.  By  the  side  of  it  stood 
a  one-story  building,  which  had  been  covered  with 
a  tin-roof  (lumber  was  a  luxury  to  be  used  as  spar- 
ingly as  possible).  She  had  never  heard  her  young 
husband  attempt  to  preach,  and  felt  a  wifely  anxi- 
ety that  he  should  favorably  impress  his  hearers. 
The  wind  was  sweeping  down  the  street  with  a 
momentum  that  carried  everything  not  securely 
fastened  before  it.  During  the  service  the  tin  roof 
beneath  kept  up  a  monotonous  rise  and  fall,  with  a 
harsh  grating  noise  not  unlike  the  wail  of  impris- 
oned spirits.  As  for  the  preacher  himself,  he  had 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER — His  WORK        287 

gone  to  this  service  feeling  entirely  unable  to  meet 
it.  He  had  never  so  realized  his  insufficiency  be- 
fore. As  he  arose  to  announce  the  hymn,  and  he 
beheld  the  questioning,  critical,  yet  not  unfriendly 
faces  before  him,  a  wild  desire  to  flee  through  the 
door,  which  stood  invitingly  open,  seized  him.  But 
no,  he  half-argued  with  himself,  he  could  not  be 
mistaken.  That  conversion  of  his,  years  before  in 
the  little  room  of  the  log-house,  had  been  a  very 
real  occurrence,  yet  none  the  less  so  than  the  sub- 
sequent still  but  persistent  voice  which  had  led  him 
into  the  ministry.  Clearly,  as  though  a  voice  had 
spoken,  came  the  promise,  "Lo,  I  am  with  you." 
A  sudden  agonized  prayer  for  help  went  up,  and 
the  sermon  began.  An  hour  afterwards  he  could 
not  have  told  what  he  preached,  whether  the  words 
were  lame  or  otherwise;  but  certainly  the  Spirit 
inspired  them.  A  strange  awe  fell  upon  the  little 
assembly.  Many  had  come  in  curiously  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  "new  preacher/'  but  melted  before 
his  earnestness.  At  the  close  no  less  than  five  came 
forward  to  unite  with  the  Church. 

The  next  morning  he  promptly  began  the  work 
of  obtaining  subscriptions.  Finally  he  had  a  suffi- 
cient amount  to  begin.  The  details  of  the  various 
steps  of  this  undertaking  need  not  be  recounted ; 
but  he  soon  found  he  must  personally  superintend 


288  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

each  one.  Besides,  funds  were  scarce,  and  every 
dollar  must  be  made  to  count,  and  so,  though 
Emma,  remembering  the  stately  and  dignified  Dr. 
Eloquent,  of  the  home  Church,  winced  a  little  as 
she  saw  her  husband,  in  working  attire,  making  a 
"hand,"  and  once,  when  out  upon  an  errand,  she 
came  across  him  selling  out  a  load  of  watermelons 
on  the  street  (they  had  been  donated  from  Old  Jo 

D 's  own  "patch"  for  the  new  church  if  they 

could  not  be  turned  into  money,  but  in  reality  to 
test  the  mettle  of  the  young  preacher).  She 
thought  it  time  to  draw  the  line ;  but  she  at  length 
grew  reconciled  to  the  new  order  of  things. 

There  was  one  unexpected  feature  of  the  new 
life  which  charmed  each,  and  that  was  the  remark- 
able general  intelligence  of  the  people.  It  was  no 
unusual  thing  to  find,  rolled  up  and  laid  away  upon 
one  of  the  "general  utility  shelves"  of  the  box 
houses,  a  diploma,  bearing  the  seal  of  some  good 
college,  while  its  owner  busied  herself  with  the 
humbler  duties  of  homekeeping.  Men  above  the 
average  stood  behind  the  counters,  or  edited  the 
"hustling"  newspapers,  or  doctored  one  when  the 
native  malaria  got  too  deep  a  hold. 

The  cosmopolitan  character  of  the  new  home 
was  shown  in  the  fact  that  in  a  single  afternoon 
there  were  callers  whose  homes,  from  which  none 


A  KANSAS  PREACHER— His  WORK        289 

had  been  long  away,  had  been  in  New  York,  Vir- 
ginia, Ohio;  and,  indeed,  nearly  every  State  in  the 
Union  was  represented  in  the  Sunday  congrega- 
tion. 

The  new  church  was  to  be  of  stone.  Ten  miles 
distant  was  a  ridge  of  hills  which  took  their  name 
from  a  beautiful  stone  found  there  in  great  quan- 
tities. This  was  to  be  used  for  the  front  and  fin- 
ishing, and  hither  the  young  preacher  took  many 
a  trip,  where  he  lent  a  hand  in  the  quarrying. 

At  last,  after  more  than  a  year  of  hard  work,  the 
building  was  completed,  and  a  lovely  Sabbath  saw 
its  dedication.  The  deep  "Italian"  sky,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  local  poets,  was  never  bluer  than  now. 
The  gentle  "zephyrs"  toned  themselves  down  to 
suit  the  occasion  as  they  left  the  green  sward  of  the 
prairie,  and  perhaps  there  never  was  a  happier  con- 
gregation than  that  which  gathered  that  day. 

The  young  pastor,  to  whom  all  acknowledge  is 
due  the  present  success  of  the  enterprise,  has  lost 
the  "student  air,"  and  now  would  be  known  any- 
where as  the  keenly-alive  Western  "preacher."  He 
does  not  consider  his  work  done  with  the  com- 
pletion of  the  building;  he  is  now  as  keenly  alive 
to  the  spiritual  upbuilding  of  'his  congregation. 

Nor  will  this  last  prove  a  less  easy  task.  Indeed, 
no  pastor,  either  Bast  or  West,  will  say  that  it  ever 
19 


290  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

is;  yet  on  the  frontier  is  is  especially  hard.  There 
is  the  rush  to  become  established  in  business,  and 
the  temptation  to  forget  God  in  the  hurry  is  always 
present.  Besides,  vice  takes  on  certain  more  em- 
phatic forms,  and  happy  the  leader  of  a  flock  that 
successfully  copes  with  all  these ;  yet  in  this  last 
work,  Asbury  Stevenson  will  not  stand  alone,  for  in 
the  heart  of  his  young  wife  is  as  strong  a  hatred  of 
sin  as  in  his.  So,  leaving  them  for  a  time,  we  bid 
them  God-speed,  and  adieu. 


XXIV 

A  Retrospect — A  Wedding — Death  of 
Richard  Newcomb 

IT  has  been  many  years — some  wearisome,  some 
joyous — since  the  group  of  watchers  stood  upon 
the  brow  of  the  hill  at  quaint,  picturesque  Lynton, 
and  waved  us  a  last  adieu,  as  with  the  two  happy 
pairs  in  the  great  canvas-covered  wagons  we  left 
its  winding,  shady  street  forever.  We  have  since 
seen  the  terminus  of  that  long  journey,  the  then 
western  wilds,  develop  and  come  to  teem  with  life 
and  a  marvelous  civilization. 

It  has  been  ours  to  see  and  note  the  struggles 
in  the  founding  and  guidance  of  the  homes  which 
were  established,  that  May-day,  in  the  village 
church  at  Lynton,  and  the  working  out  of  the  in- 
dividuals' problem  of  worldly  prosperity. 

In  these  two  homes,  as  in  every  home,  there  has 
been  constant  sowing  of  seed,  either  good  or  bad. 
The  harvest  of  some  has  already  been  garnered ; 
but  all  seed  does  not  ripen  in  a  year,  nor  yet  in  a 
decade,  and  as  the  patient  husbandman,  having 
seen  to  it  that  his  seed  possesses  the  true  germinal 
291 


292  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

principles  of  life,  having  planted  them,  leaves  them 
in  perfect  faith  to  the  sure  offices  of  nature  to  effect 
the  growth,  and  in  its  season,  with  unerring  sure- 
ness,  gather  the  harvest,  so  we,  having  watched  this 
daily  home-sowing,  sometimes  with  joy,  as  often 
with  dread,  must  leave  to  the  years  the  final  gath- 
ering. 

It  will  be  ours  therefore  to  drop  the  curtain,  nor 
will  it  be  raised  until  such  a  number  of  years  has 
passed  that  the  fruits  of  the  home  growing  will 
be  easily  recognizable.  We  hold  it  yet  a  moment 
to  note  one  or  two  events  of  interest  to  us. 

The  cottage  home  at  Burrtonville  again  wears  a 
holiday  appearance,  and  we  find  that  Earnest  War- 
ren has  come  to  claim  his  bride,  and  gentle  Ruth 
Stevenson  is  to  go  out  from  the  home  forever.  Her 
loss  is  going  to  fall  heavily  upon  both  father  and 
mother,  and  as  the  preparations  for  the  wedding 
festivities  progress,  their  hearts  grow  heavier;  for 
from  the  time  that  her  father  had  held  her  in  his 
great  strong  arms,  she  a  wee  winsome  babe,  she 
had  nestled  very  near  his  heart;  indeed,  in  many 
ways,  she  was  his  own  counterpart.  She  had  al- 
ways been  so  unselfish  in  her  life,  an  offset  in  many 
instances  to  the  more  impetuous  nature  of  Louise 
and  of  her  brothers,  it  was  hard  to  imagine  the 
home  without  her. 


A  WEDDING  293 

Yet  there  was  much  comfort  in  knowing  that  he 
who  was  to  be  her  husband  was  so  worthy.  He 
had  already  won  for  himself  an  enviable  name  as  a 
teacher  in  the  college  to  which  he  had  gone  when 
his  own  school-days  had  ceased.  But  he  desired  to 
pursue  still  further  certain  branches  of  study.  An 
opportunity  had  offered  itself  for  him  to  go  abroad 
for  a  year  or  two,  and  he  desired  that  Ruth  should 
accompany  him. 

Ruth  had  been,  as  we  know,  loth  to  give  up  the 
final  years  of  her  college  course;  but  the  home 
needs  had  seemed  to  make  imperative  the  accept- 
ance of  the  position  offered  her  in  the  academy,  so 
it  was  with  genuine  pleasure  she  looked  forward  to 
a  year  or  two  of  further  study  with  her  husband  in 
one  of  the  cities  of  Germany. 

The  wedding-day  at  length  dawned.  Asbury 
and  his  young  wife  honored  it  by  making  it  the 
occasion  of  their  first  visit  home.  Their  coming 
has  been  heralded  for  weeks,  and  there  is  an  under- 
tone of  excitement  which  strikes  us  as  very  strange. 
John  the  younger,  proud  of  his  commission,  has 
driven  to  fetch  them  from  the  train ;  and  see !  they 
are  at  the  gate!  Ah!  now  the  mystery  is  plain. 
Grandmother  Rachel  is  herself  at  the  carriage,  and 
her  great  bearded  boy  has  held  her  in  his  arms  for 
an  instant  as  he  gives  her  the  greeting  kiss;  but 


294  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

she  hardly  notices  it,  she  is  so  eager  and  enrapt 
with  the  strange,  dainty  bundle  of  white  cambric 
and  flannel  motherly  Emma  is  handing  out.  Now 
they  are  in  the  house,  and  O,  strange  sight!  when 
the  little  face  is  uncovered,  and  she  bends  to  kiss 
it,  she  suddenly  breaks  down,  and  as  her  own  tears 
fall  fast,  no  eye  of  all  in  the  room  is  dry.  Clasping 
the  wondering  babe  to  her  breast,  she  has  sobbed 
aloud,  "Sweet,  sweet  baby  Louise!"  So  has  the 
absent  one  been  remembered. 

The  student  Edward  has  also  come  from  his 
books. 

The  hours  fly  swiftly,  and  soon  the  event  which 
has  summoned  them  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  And 
Ruth  is  gone. 

Asbury  lingered  for  a  few  days'  visit,  of  course. 
The  pulpit  of  the  new  home  church  was  offered 
him,  and  old  neighbors  and  interested  friends,  who 
had  known  him  all  his  life,  gathered  to  hear  him 
preach. 

Among  them,  hardly  daring  to  look  up,  sat 
Father  and  Mother  Stevenson.  There  are  some 
things  which  can  only  be  imagined ;  among  such  is 
the  quiet,  thrilling  happiness  which  filled  these 
faithful  hearts  as  they  heard  their  first-born  "ex- 
pound unto  them  the  things  of  God."  But  could 
this  strangely  earnest,  free,  and  at  all  times  really 


A  WEDDING  295 

eloquent  young  speaker  be  their  own  quiet,  shy 
child? 

Ah,  brave  hearts,  it  was  yours  in  the  years  you 
had,  not  only  him,  but  his  brothers  and  sisters  as 
well,  with  you  in  the  little  plain  log  home,  to  lay 
the  foundations  of  the  character  each  is  developing. 
You,  indeed,  builded  better  than  you  knew  with 
your  own  simple  faith ;  but  there  came  a  day  when 
your  last  molding  touch  was  given  and  you  yielded 
them  to  others.  In  your  own  humble  lives  you 
little  guessed  the  breadth  of  soul,  the  enlargement 
of  vision,  that  should  come  to  each  through  the 
study  and  associations  of  their  college  life.  And  in 
the  case  of  this  your  first-born,  within  the  last  years, 
God  has  been  his  teacher  in  the  school  of  experi- 
ence, and  as  you  hear  his  burning  words  you  may 
well  say  humbly,  "What  hath  God  wrought!" 

A  few  days,  and  the  visitors  are  gone.  Of  the 
many  that  once  gathered  about  the  table,  but  John 
and  Rose  are  left,  and  the  father  says,  "We  must 
all  love  each  other  the  more." 


We  hold  the  curtain  yet  a  little  longer,  this  time 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  procession  that,  with  a  sable 
hearse  and  nodding  plumes,  slowly  winds  its  way 
to  the  city  of  the  dead.  Before  we  join  in  its 


296  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

measured  tread  we  shall  have  to  take  a  glance 
westward. 

Following  the  marriage  of  Ruth,  Asbury  had 
been  back  in  his  Western  pastorate  perhaps  about 
two  years.  These  had  been  spent  in  hard  work. 
Falls  City  was  not  a  very  promising  field  for  a 
teacher  of  morality.  It  is  true  his  beautiful  church 
was  a  standing  invitation  to  all  who  would  to  enter 
and  worship,  yet  it  took  all  the  efforts  of  the  watch- 
ful and  alert  young  pastor  to  withstand  the  steady 
attacks  of  sin  and  vice  which  in  the  first  years  of 
every  Western  town  contended  for  mastery. 

That  plague-spot  of  civilization,  the  open  drink- 
shop,  flourished  unrestrained  by  law.  There  would 
be  days  and  nights  when,  from  the  adjoining 
ranches,  "cowboys,"  as  those  having  charge  of  the 
great  herds  of  cattle  there  were  called,  would  gather 
in,  drink,  gamble,  and  hold  a  carnival  of  sin.  At 
such  times  the  terrified  inhabitants  could  only  close 
their  doors  and  windows,  and  listen  in  dread  to  the 
crack  of  the  pistol,  which  told  of  the  summary 
settlement  of  some  fancied  insult. 

Because  of  all  this,  it  was  not  with  a  great  deal 
of  surprise  that,  on  a  morning  following  a  "cowboy 
raid,"  Asbury  received  a  hasty  summons  to  visit  a 
man  who  had  been  shot  in  some  kind  of  a  tnelee 
during  the  night,  and  was  said  to  be  dying.  Yet  if 


297 

the  message  gave  him  no  surprise,  a  bit  of  infor- 
mation volunteered  on  the  way  did.  It  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  wounded  man  had  particularly  asked 
for  him  by  name.  Who  among  all  the  wild  men 
gathered  there  knew  him? 

Soon  he  was  shown  into  a  little,  narrow,  low 
room,  where,  upon  a  bed,  lay — could  he  be- 
lieve his  eyes? — his  once  brilliant  playmate  and 
friend,  Richard  Newcomb. 

Asbury  Stevenson  had  learned  something  of  his 
Master's  tenderness  during  these  years  of  trial. 
His  old  rigid  notions  had  insensibly  softened ;  he 
had  been  growing,  in  these  latter  days,  to  look 
beyond  the  sinner  to  the  causes  that  made  him 
such,  and  now  Louise  could  not  herself  have  knelt 
more  tenderly  than  did  he,  nor  could  her  touch 
have  been  gentler  than  was  that  of  this  elder 
brother  of  hers,  who  was  filled  with  ineffable  pity 
as  he  beheld  his  old-time  comrade. 

The  wounded  man  was  still  conscious.  "No, 
he  can  not  live,"  said  the  physician,  "nor  will  it 
hasten  his  end  if  he  is  carefully  removed."  This 
in  answer  to  an  anxious  question  of  Asbury.  In 
an  hour,  Richard  was  lying  in  the  cool,  little  spare- 
room  of  the  parsonage,  and  Emma  was  ministering 
to  his  needs. 

After  intervals  of  pain,  fragments  of  his  story 


298  RICHARD  NKWCOMB 

were  gleaned,  and  piecing  them  together  the  Ste- 
vensons  guessed  the  last  few  months  had  been  full 
of  dissipation,  spent  somewhere  further  west. 
There  he  had  learned  of  Asbury's  residence  here, 
and  a  longing  desire  to  look  on  them  seized  him. 
He  had  not  yet  fully  decided  whether  or  no  he 
would  make  himself  known,  and  had  gone  to  the 
hotel.  He  had  but  lately  lost  his  all  at  the  gam- 
bling-table, and  that  night  he  thought  he  saw  his 
opportunity  to  win  back  a  part  of  his  loss.  Some- 
how, at  the  cards — he  could  not  tell  how — trouble 
had  arisen,  and  he  knew  no  more. 

After  he  had  told  this  much,  he  sank  into  a 
stupor,  from  which  nothing  could  arouse  him.  Some 
time  during  the  next  day,  as  Emma  was  perform- 
ing some  little  office  at  the  bedside,  Baby  Louise 
toddled  up,  and  stooping  to  take  her  in  her  arms, 
Emma  called  her  by  name.  Suddenly  the  great 
dark  eyes  of  the  stranger  opened,  and  lighted  up 
with  something  of  their  old-time  beauty,  and  bent 
a  questioning  look,  first  upon  the  child  and  then 
upon  the  mother.  Divining  his  thought,  Emma 
bent  and  whispered : 

"Yes,  we  named  her  for  Louise." 

A  wistful  look  grew  in  the  eyes,  which  Emma 
thought  she  understood,  and  bending  she  smoothed 
a  place  and  laid  the  little  Louise  beside  him.  To 


DEATH  OF  RICHARD  NEWCOMB  299 

her  surprise  the  child  did  not  shrink,  but  with  her 
baby  hands  gently  stroked  his  face.  And  thus  he 
died. 

Ah,  little  Louise!  was  it  some  subtle  influence, 
of  whose  laws  we  as  yet  know  nothing,  that,  com- 
ing from  the  great  heart  of  her  whose  name  you 
bear,  caused  this  baby  act  that  comforted  the  dying 
man?  Who  can  tell? 

"No,  he  must  not  lie  in  a  western  grave.  With 
our  going,  there  will  be  none  to  bear  him  in  re- 
membrance. His  body  must  lie  by  his  mother's,  at 
home."  It  was  Emma  who  had  spoken,  as  she, 
with  her  husband,  stood  over  the  lifeless  clay, 
which  lay  with  the  old-time  beauty  restored  in 
every  feature. 

"And  she" — and  Asbury's  voice  grew  very  ten- 
der, and  his  eyes  instinctively  turned  toward  the 
Orient — "would  not  want  him  to  go  to  his  grave 
unattended." 

In  a  few  hours,  all  that  was  mortal  of  Richard 
Newcomb  was  being  carried  eastward,  and  a  soli- 
tary, saddened  man  accompanied  it.  Very  content 
was  he  in  his  humbleness  to  leave  the  spirit  with  the 
Great  Judge,  who  knoweth  the  soul  environments 
of  us  all,  and  in  his  judgment  has  promised  to  re- 
member that  we  are  dust. 

And  it  is  this  body  we  have  seen  borne  to  the 


300  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

grave.  It  had  lain  in  the  old  home  over  night ;  but 
once  was  the  covering  removed.  The  watchers  in 
the  adjacent  room  were  startled  by  the  sound  of 
footfalls.  Quietly  looking,  they  saw  an  old  man, 
bent,  yet  not  with  the  weight  of  years,  go  slowly 
to  the  bier,  lift  the  lid,  and  place  therein  a  silver 
head.  No,  they  could  not  be  mistaken;  for  the 
delicate  golden  leaves  of  laurel  glistened  even  in 
that  dim  light.  Having  placed  it,  he  bent  a  mo- 
ment over  the  still  rarely  beautiful  face,  and  with 
a  groan  turned  away. 

A  few  weeks  later  another  grave  was  made,  and 
William  Newcomb  was  no  more.  Poor  Therese 
must  have  died  under  all  these  cruel  blows  had  it 
not  been  for  the  Christian  faith  she  had  learned. 
But  her  future  seemed,  indeed,  without  a  ray  of 
promise.  So  at  least  it  seemed  to  her,  as  in  her 
sister's  elegant  room — it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
remain  alone  in  the  great  house — she  sat  rocking 
Marie's  baby,  William.  Was  there  any  use,  after 
all,  for  her  to  try  ?  She  had  tried,  O  so  hard,  and 
just  when  her  own  and  her  father's  heart  seemed 
knitting  in  the  closest  sympathy,  these  last  trials 
had  come;  and  now  he,  her  last  friend,  was  gone. 
No,  it  was  no  use  to  try. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  the  housemaid 
entered  and  handed  her  a  letter.  "It  is  from  Ruth," 


DEATH  OP  RICHARD  NEWCOMB          301 

said  she,  as  she  broke  the  seal.  Yes,  it  was  from 
Ruth,  who  wrote  such  gracious,  tender  words  of 
sympathy  that  poor  Therese  wept  as  she  had  not 
during  all  these  dreadful  days.  Then  followed 
words  of  comfort.  Who  has  not  realized  that  there 
are  times  when  the  most  comforting  thought  that 
can  come  is,  that  "there  is  somebody  else  who 
cares  ?"  Finally  came  the  glad  news  that  they  were 
to  return  shortly,  and  the  half-playful,  half-in- 
earnest  injunction  to  keep  up  her  studies,  and  that 
Earnest  was  very  sure  he  could  find  a  place  for  her 
as  teacher. 

"And,  mind,  you  are  to  live  with  us." 
Wise  Ruth;  she  knew  Therese's  surest  means 
of  happiness  lay,  as  does  every  one's,  in  work.  A 
grief  that  folds  its  hands  is  soon  well  named  de- 
spair; hence  she  sought,  and  did  arouse  her  to 
action ;  for  as  she  finished  the  letter,  she  said,  with 
an  air  of  decision,  "No,  I  will  not  give  up." 

But  our  curtain  refuses  to  remain  longer,  so  we 
leave,  not  only  Therese,  but  all  the  others,  in  whom 
we  have  grown  interested,  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  years. 


XXV 

A  Family  Reunion — Gathered  Thistles 

EIGHTEEN  hundred  and  ninety-three!  How 
much  may  happen  in  a  decade !  Yet  if  we  add 
to  that,  one,  yet  another,  as  we  must,  since  we  last 
looked  in  upon  our  friends,  the  changes  may  be 
startling.  If  this  is  true  of  a  family,  it  is  none  the 
less  so  of  a  nation. 

With  the  rapid  march  of  the  years,  almost  the 
last  trace,  except  in  the  hearts  that  still  ache,  of  the 
dreadful  war  which  threatened  at  one  time  to  de- 
vastate both  North  and  South,  has  been  wiped  out. 
During  these  years,  cities  have  been  planted,  or, 
already  existing  as  little  more  than  villages,  have 
grown  with  a  rapidity  that  would  startle  even  Alad- 
din himself. 

The  new  forces  of  steam  and  electricity  have 
revolutionized  the  commonest  affairs  of  life.  One 
can  now  whiz  by  on  a  car,  drawn,  as  the  ancients 
would  have  said,  by  magic;  or,  by  a  trick  of  the 
same  conjurer,  talk  with  a  friend  a  thousand  miles 
away,  recognizing  the  very  intonations  and  peculiar 
inflections  of  the  voice;  and  yet  staid  history  as- 
302 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  303 

sures  us  that  this  wonderful  land,  which  has  shown 
such  a  marvelous  capacity  for  development,  was  but 
four  short  centuries  ago  unknown  to  civilization; 
but  at  that  time  an  intrepid  mariner  sailed  out  from 
the  known  into  the  unknown,  and  after  a  journey 
of  which  every  detail  is  now  hunted  and  made  much 
of,  he  was  able  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  the  old  civil- 
ization this  New  World,  brimming  over,  as  he  him- 
self little  guessed,  with  possibilities  for  the  future. 

Of  course,  its  great  rivers  were  then  as  yet  un- 
known, its  great  inland  seas  unsuspected,  and  its 
cities  unbuilt.  Still,  its  mere  finding  was  a  great 
event,  and  therefore  it  is  little  wonder  that  the  na- 
tions of  the  earth,  looking  back  through  the  cen- 
turies, resolved  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  its 
finding,  and,  to  do  so,  had  arranged  to  bring  the 
choicest  products  of  their  civilization  and  exhibit 
them  on  'a  scale  of  magnificence  hitherto  unat- 
tempted.  The  winds  caught  up  the  story  of  this 
coming  splendor,  and  wafted  it  across  meadow  and 
hill,  heather  and  steppes.  The  current  carried  it 
beneath  the  waves,  and  whispered  it  to  the  dwell- 
ers in  the  region  beyond,  and  the  eyes  and  thoughts 
of  the  world  turned  America-ward. 

Among  the  many  little  knots  or  groups  who, 
under  their  own  sky  and  in  their  own  tongue,  dis- 
cussed the  wonders  that  were  to  be  seen  by  a 


304  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

journey  across  the  ocean,  there  is  but  one  that  in- 
terests us. 

In  a  well-built  mission-house  in  one  of  the  in- 
terior cities  of  China  a  little  group  of  missionaries 
has  lingered,  evidently  to  talk  over  "something." 
A  large  company  of  comfortably  and  neatly  clad 
girls  have  just  marched  out  of  the  chapel;  for  the 
"mustard-seed"  has  taken  deep  root,  grown,  and 
spread  itself,  not  unlike  its  Scriptural  ancestor.  In- 
stead of  the  erstwhile  narrow,  dirty  little  room  in  a 
wretched  part  of  the  city,  now,  on  one  of  the 
choicest  knolls,  with  grounds  enough  about  them 
to  give  the  inmates  a  breath  of  God's  pure  air, 
stands  a  cluster  of  buildings,  upon  which  they  who 
planted  in  tears,  look  with  genuine  pride.  Besides 
the  comfortable  home  for  the  missionaries,  there  is 
a  roomy  school-building,  in  which  is  the  chapel  we 
have  just  seen.  The  dream  of  a  "girls'  college"  is 
a  reality. 

Let  us  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  missionary 
group.  Most  of  them  are  reinforcements  from 
the  home-land,  hence  strangers  to  us ;  but  we  are 
at  once  attracted  to  a  bright,  happy — yes,  happy, 
though  it  seems  a  happiness  born  of  pain — face  of  a 
woman  whose  brown  wavy  hair  is  beginning  to  be 
thickly  sprinkled  with  silver.  She  has  left  the 
organ,  over  whose  keys  her  fingers  have  been  idly 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  305 

straying,  and  is  joining  the  little  group  who  are 
eagerly  discussing  some  question.  As  she  comes 
up,  one  speaks,  evidently  for  all,  "No,  we  can  not 
all  go,  much  as  we  would  like  to ;  but  one  can  be 
spared  from  the  work,  and  that  one  must  be  our 
brave,  cheery  worker,  Louise,  who  in  all  these  years 
has  never  been  to  the  home-land."  "Yes,  so  say 
we  all." 

Louise  Stevenson — for  it  is  she — s-tands  for  a 
moment  strangely  disconcerted.  For  months,  they 
of  the  mission-house  have  been  reading  of  the  won- 
derful happenings  at  home ;  but  better  to  each  than 
sight  of  sculptor's  dream  in  marble  or  of  artist's 
sublimest  conception  would  be  to  look  again  into 
the  dear  faces  at  home,  or  to  sit  at  the  ingleside 
where  mother  was  wont  to  hum  a  lullaby,  and  for 
weeks,  as  the  world's  procession  of  travelers 
America-ward  grew,  this  thought  has  taken  root 
and  grown  at  the  mission-house,  "Can  not  at  least 
one  of  us  go?"  And  it  was  this  they  had  lingered 
to  discuss,  and  their  decision  we  have  heard. 

At  length,  Louise  spoke,  and  her  voice  trem- 
bled :  "Well,  I  do  n't  want  to  seem  selfish" — at  this 
they,  knowing  her  peculiarly  unselfish  life,  smiled — 
"but  it  seems  strange  that  father  and  mother  should 
still  live.  Sometimes  it  seems  that  I  must  see  them 
again,  and  then  I  can  contentedly  return,  and — " 
20 


306  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

But  she  did  not  finish  the  sentence  with  her  voice, 
but  involuntarily  her  eyes  sought  a  little,  sacred 
spot,  visible  from  the  chapel  window,  where,  dur- 
ing the  years,  workers  had  one  by  one  lain  down 
to  rest.  So  it  was  settled.  Louise,  the  hard-work- 
ing missionary,  was  going  home,  and  an  outgoing 
steamer  carried  the  news  homeward  the  very  next 
day. 

Again  and  again,  during  all  these  long  years, 
she  had  expected  to  go ;  but  the  needs  had  been  so 
urgent,  and  she  had  seemed  so  well  adapted  to  the 
work ;  besides,  her  health  had  been  good,  while  that 
of  other  missionaries  had  failed,  and  when  they  had 
been  ordered  home  for  rest,  she  had  always  been 
able  to  fill  up  the  breach.  And  none  knew  better 
than  the  group  of  missionaries  in  the  chapel — in- 
deed, the  whole  Board  of  Missions  as  well,  who 
proudly  pointed  to  "our  college" — that  its  incep- 
tion and  its  steady  march  towards  success  was  due 
to  the  clear  brain  and  indomitable  perseverance  of 
her  who  was  now  to  take  her  first  vacation. 

From  that  hour  when  she  had  held  entranced 
with  her  voice  her  first  unclean,  half-clothed  audi- 
ence, she  had  known  no  rest.  She  had  used  her  pen 
vigorously,  and,  in  response,  welcome  donations 
came  in  for  the  proposed  college.  The  fame  of  her 
voice  grew  until  it  reached  and  captured  the  ear  of 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  307 

many  of  the  better  class.  Nor  was  that  her  sole 
secret.  Her  cheery  face  won  friends,  and  her  com- 
plete self-abnegation — indeed  she  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  thought  of  self,  and  to  be  lost  in  her  work — 
with  her  instinctive  sympathy  and  helpfulness,  won 
the  hearts  of  all  who  came  in  contact  with  her. 

The  peculiar  rescue-work  of  the  mission  some- 
times uncovered  such  loathsome  cases  of  misery, 
that  occasionally  one  less  brave  than  she  would 
shrink.  Sometimes  the  girls  who  came  to  them 
were  little  tiny  tots,  who  had  come  into  the  world 
only  to  suffer  at  the  hands  of  parents  or  friends. 
Such  Louise  would  take  into  her  own  arms,  bathe, 
and  clothe. 

And  now  she  was  going  home !  The  news  flew, 
and  when  the  day  came  for  her  to  sail,  she  passed 
through  long  dusky  ranks  that  had  gathered  to  do 
her  honor;  but  alas  for  overstrained  nature,  in  the 
stress  some  of  these  forgot  their  studied  parts,  and 
could  only  wail  aloud  in  true  Oriental  style ! 


As  the  ship  bears  Louise  homeward,  we  pause 
to  gather  up  a  few  broken  threads  of  the  past. 

"Louise  is  coming  home!"  With  strangely 
blurred  eyes,  an  old  man  had  sat  down  to  read 
aloud  the  letter,  bearing  the  strange  foreign  post- 


308  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

mark  they  had  come  to  know  so  well,  and  the  first 
few  lines  he  read  told  the  story. 

Grandmother  Rachel  was  sitting  in  her  easy- 
chair  by  the  windows  of  the  "new  rooms"  she  had 
planned  so  long  ago.  Her  joy  at  hearing  the  glad 
announcement  must  be  imagined.  Later,  as  she 
wiped  her  glasses,  she  said,  "And  the  other  children 
must  come  too,  and  we  will  see  them  all  together 
again  before  we  go  hence."  But  before  that  joyful 
gathering,  we  shall  have  to  ask  why  we  find  them 
sitting  so  contentedly  in  the  old  home. 

Their  youngest  son  had  made  good  his  boyish 
vow,  registered  over  the  glossy  mane  of  his  favorite 
"Beauty."  Perhaps  a  rapid  sketch  of  his  life  would 
not  be  amiss. 

William  Newcomb,  in  his  brightest  days,  had 
not  possessed  a  greater  desire  to  "get  on  in  the 
world"  than  did  this  country  boy;  but  there  was 
this  difference :  The  lad  was  God-serving  and  God- 
fearing, and,  as  we  have  seen,  in  his  earliest  years 
began  by  rendering  back  unto  God  a  part  of  all  his 
gains,  yet  withal  he  possessed  true  business  acute- 
ness.  He  was  greatly  fascinated  by  Asbury's 
stories  of  western  life,  and  resolved  to  visit  that 
marvelous  country  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  He 
had  a  reason  for  this  that  he  was  not  yet  ready  to 
share  with  any  one.  That  Arizona  land  haunted 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  309 

him  like  a  nightmare.  He  had  read  and  studied 
with  interest  everything  that  came  in  his  way  since 
he  had  had  the  "worthless  deed"  in  his  possession. 
Once  he  had  read  that  copper  had  been  found,  yet 
not  in  quantities  that  would  make  its  "reduction" 
profitable.  "What  if" — and  this  was  'his  own  little 
dream,  that  lightened  many  a  homely  task  these 
days — "what  if  this  particular  bit  of  land  should 
possess  the  valued  metal?"  Therefore  he  could 
scarcely  conceal  his  satisfaction  when  one  July 
morning  found  him  journeying  west,  with  a  whole 
month  at  his  disposal.  Once  in  Asbury's  home, 
he  was  not  long  in  making  his  plans  known,  and 
a  week  later  he  had  started  on  a  tour  of  personal 
inspection. 

The  land  was  easily  located.  Instead  of  being  a 
part  of  a  continuous  plain,  as  he  had  supposed,  he 
found  it  broken,  with  here  and  there  great  rocky 
fissures,  and  not  greatly  distant  from  the  moun- 
tains. He  did  not  fail  to  feel  the  pulse  of  local 
opinion  concerning  its  value.  "Arid,"  "worthless," 
the  precise  terms  used  by  the  lawyer  years  ago,  and 
his  own  observations,  as  he  wearily  tramped  over 
it,  confirmed  the  verdict. 

The  old  scene  in  the  lawyer's  office  came  back 
to  him,  and  though  he  could  not  have  explained 
why,  he  experienced  a  new  sense  of  loss.  Until 


3io  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

now  he  had  not  guessed  how  much  he  had  builded 
upon  these  acres.  In  his  tramp  he  had  neared  a 
gulch,  and  being  wearied  in  body  he  sat  down  upon 
a  ledge  of  rock,  and  sitting  there  gave  vent  to  the 
disappointment  he  could  not  but  feel. 

"How  useless  this  part  of  creation,  anyway!" 
That  mountain  over  there,  he  had  been  told,  con- 
tained, not  only  copper,  as  he  had  read,  but  metals 
even  more  precious,  but  worthless,  all  because  coal 
'had  to  be  brought  from  such  a  distance. 

"But  what  is  that?"  As  he  half  lay,  half  sat,  he 
had  been  mechanically  kicking  at  an  unoffending 
stone  that  lay  a  little  looser  than  its  fellows.  In- 
stantly his  old  lessons  in  geology  with  Louise 
flashed  upon  him.  "I  believe  that  is  a  surface  indi- 
cation of  coal!"  What  if  it  were?  His  heart 
bounded,  for  that  very  morning  he  had  been  told 
how  profitable  copper-mining  would  be  if  there 
were  only  coal. 

He  examined  more  closely,  then  returned  to  his 
stopping-place,  and  later  returned  with  pick  and 
shovel,  and  soon  became  convinced  of  the  proxim- 
ity of  coal.  How  much  he  did  not  know;  this  he 
left  for  those  of  more  experience. 

He  anxiously  watched  the  workers  for  the  next 
two  days,  and  heard,  almost  as  an  echo  of  one  of  his 
dreams,  "It  is  a  good  paying  vein!" 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  311 

The  news  spread.  With  characteristic  western 
push,  a  company  was  formed,  and  within  a  week  he 
had  received  an  offer  that  equaled  in  value  the  old 
home  farm. 

John  suddenly  lost  all  interest  in  a  further 
western  trip,  and  hastened  home  with  the  surpris- 
ing news.  We  shall  make  no  attempt  to  depict  the 
surprise  of  the  home-folk.  The  offer  was  too 
gladly  accepted,  and  was  used  at  once  in  the  re- 
purchase of  the  old  farm ;  and  with  characteristic 
honesty,  the  few  hundreds  in  excess  of  what  was 
needed  for  this  was  given  to  Theresd"  for  her  father's 
sake. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  solid  wealth  for  John 
junior;  for  his  parents  rightly  said  the  farm  ought 
to  be  his.  In  this  his  brothers  and  sisters  con- 
curred, so  the  transfer  papers  were  made  out.  He 
thought  so  well  of  the  coal-mining  company  that 
had  been  formed,  that  he  persuaded  his  father  to 
loan  him  a  few  hundred  dollars  to  buy  stock.  In 
less  than  two  years  it  had  paid  for  itself  and  more ; 
but  this  was  his  last  "speculation."  He  decided 
the  business  too  fraught  with  anxieties. 

The  log-house  had  gone  the  way  of  the  earth; 
but  the  added  rooms,  in  which  the  younger  Rachel 
had  taken  such  a  pride,  were  still  good,  and  after 
being  remodeled  would  make  a  cheery  "evening 


312  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

place"  for  the  father  and  mother;  and  it  was  here 
we  saw  them  at  the  reopening  of  this  story.  In 
the  course  of  time,  John  had  built  his  own  great, 
roomy  house  by  the  side  of  these — indeed,  con- 
nected by  a  door — and  here,  at  the  reopening,  he 
lives  with  his  wife  and  growing  family  of  boys  and 
girls. 

A  swift  successor  to  Beauty  carries  him  back 
and  forth  to  his  business ;  for  the.  old  mills,  remod- 
eled and  rebuilt,  have  been  his  for  many  a  day.  A 
steady  business  man  is  he,  recognized  in  the  home 
Church  as  one  of  its  thoroughgoing,  truest  friends. 

"Louise  is  coming  home !"  The  news  flew.  All 
agreed  in  the  wish  of  their  mother  that  they  should 
celebrate  her  coming  by  a  family  gathering.  She 
would  arrive  about  the  first  of  May.  Happy 
thought !  Why  not  celebrate  the  fiftieth  anniversary 
of  the  wedding  that  occurred  in  Lynton  in  'forty- 
three  ? 

The  broad  acres  of  the  old  farm  had  never 
looked  more  beautiful  than  they  did  that  bright 
May  morning,  when  the  great  farmhouse  seemed 
literally  alive  with  guests  and  children.  Rose  had 
not  far  to  come ;  she  was  the  wife  of  the  prosperous 
farmer  who  owned  the  acres  adjoining.  Her  own 
and  her  brother  John's  young  people  had  been 
jealously  watching  the  great  orchard,  that  for  more 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  313 

than  a  week  had  been  a  snowy  mass  of  bloom. 
Grandmother  had  told  of  the  old,  sweet  wedding 
decorations,  and  it  had  been  their  wish  to  reproduce 
them.  "Would  the  blossoms  fade  too  soon?"  was 
the  absorbing  question.  A  row  of  Winter  Green- 
ings answered  by  delaying  their  bloom  two  whole 
weeks  after  the  others,  and,  when  the  anniversary 
dawned,  were  radiant  in  their  beauty.  Great  bowl- 
fuls  stood  in  every  nook  and  corner,  and  Rose's 
eldest,  a  sweet  lass  of  twelve,  named  Rachel,  capped 
the  climax  when  she  pinned  a  spray  at  her  grand- 
mother's breast,  and  arranged  a  smart,  modern 
boutonniere  for  her  grandfather's  lapel. 

The  Rev.  Asbury  and  family  had  arrived.  His 
hair  is  whitening  rapidly.  It  is  yet  an  interesting 
question  in  psychology  whether  or  not  one  grows 
to  be  so  affected  by  his  profession  or  calling  that  it 
becomes  in  a  sort  of  a  way  a  kind  of  badge.  At 
any  rate,  you  would  have  taken  this  man  for  a 
preacher  anywhere,  and  a  Western  one  at  that. 
Perhaps  the  unconventional  style  of  his  dress  and 
demeanor  suggested  the  latter,  or  it  may  have  been 
his  ready  utterance  and  earnestness  in  regard  to 
sins  both  private  and  national.  There  is  not  really 
a  hint  of  conservatism  in  his  whole  make-up. 

God  has  been  very  gracious  in  his  dealings  with 
this  our  erstwhile  young  minister,  and  he  has  be- 


314  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

come  a  strong  factor  in  both  Church  and  State. 
The  word  "State"  is  used  advisedly;  for  during 
these  last  twenty  years  a  great  moral  triumph  has 
been  won,  and  when  the  tocsin  of  war  sounded,  he 
and  his  brethren  to  a  man  girt  on  their  swords  of 
ready  argument,  convincing  logic,  and  prayer  of 
faith.  They  spoke  while  standing  on  goods-boxes 
on  the  open  streets  on  week-days,  and  within  pul- 
pits on  the  Sabbath.  Every  schoolhouse  became 
an  orator's  platform  from  which  this  new  move- 
ment was  heralded.  There  could  be  but  one  result. 
To-day,  in  all  that  State,  there  is  not  a  legalized 
place  like  that  in  which  Richard  Newcomb  received 
his  death-wound. 

Those  were  heroic  days!  The  younger  chil- 
dren, even  now,  love  to  gather  while  Aunt  Emma 
tells  of  burning  churches,  of  threatened  lynchings, 
and  sometimes  of  bloodshed. 

Edward,  the  quiet  scholar,  the  ready  writer,  and 
apt  scientist,  is  also  here.  His  "maiden  article"  was 
followed  by  many  others.  To-day  he  is  a  valuable 
contributor  to  many  of  the  current  periodicals. 
Contrary  to  his  mother's  expectations,  he,  too,  en- 
tered the  ministry,  but  under  circumstances  very 
different  from  those  of  his  brother  Asbury,  for  his 
first  charge  was  a  city  mission.  He  did  most  excel- 
lent service  here  for  two  years,  and  it  was  here  he 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  315 

found  his  bride.  She  had  grown  up  in  a  parsonage. 
His  ministerial  prospects  seemed  unusually  bright; 
but  just  at  this  juncture  his  Alma  Mater  gave  him 
an  urgent  call  to  teach  in  its  halls,  offering  him, 
what  he  most  loved,  the  Sciences.  Finally  he 
yielded.  It  was  as  well,  for  time  has  proven  him  a 
rare  educator.  To-day  he  is  a  recognized  authority 
upon  botany.  Go  into  your  high  school,  and  more 
than  likely  the  authorized  text-book  on  that  science 
will  bear  his  name. 

Ruth  Warren  and  her  husband,  with  their  chil- 
dren, have  come  from  the  far  West.  For  years  he 
has  been  president  of  a  Western  college  that  is  tak- 
ing front  rank  among  its  more  pretentious  Eastern 
sisters.  It  would  take  a  great  deal  of  time  and 
space  to  tell  the  half  of  Ruth's  life-successes.  She 
has  been  the  companion,  fellow-student,  and  in- 
spiration of  her  husband.  She  is  an  intelligent 
factor  in  the  Church,  and  a  sweet  and  gracious 
mother;  in  short,  her  womanhood  is  but  the  fruit- 
age of  the  promise  of  her  girlhood. 

But  the  center  of  attraction  to  all,  even  to  the 
elders  as  well  as  the  younger  ones,  was  a  sweet- 
faced  elderly  woman,  with  frost-sprinkled  hair,  of 
whom  at  first  the  younger  ones  stood  a  little  in  awe. 
How  could  they  think  a  missionary,  whom  they  had 
never  seen,  a  bit  of  common  flesh  and  blood  like 


316  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

themselves !  But  a  few  cheery  laughs  from  the 
missionary,  and  that  vanished.  And  how  proud 
they  were  of  their  own  Aunt  Louise,  of  whom  each 
had  heard  all  their  lives !  Is  it  true,  or  do  we  imag- 
ine it,  that  sometimes  her  gaze  rests  most  lovingly 
upon  that  other  sweet  young  Louise  Stevenson,  the 
babe  of  twenty  years  ago,  who  has  just  completed 
the  course  at  her  "Uncle  Earnest's  college,"  or 
that  with  a  peculiar  fondness  she  caresses  the  soft 
white  hand  that  lies  in  her  lap?  Perhaps,  though, 
it  is  all  our  fancy,  for  she  is  the  life  of  the  gather- 
ing. What  marvelous  stories  she  tells  of  far-away 
China  and  of  the  mission  life!  It  all  sounds  so 
grand,  that  half  the  younger  ones  are  secretly  re- 
solving to  become  missionaries. 

We  had  not  noticed  that  in  this  group  there  are 
two  strange  faces — not  strange,  either,  for  we  have 
seen  them  before.  One  of  them  is  sitting  near 
Ruth  Warren.  It  is  the  quiet,  happy  face  of  The- 
rese,  with  the  heartache  all  gone. 

All  of  Ruth's  written  promises  were  fulfilled. 
After  she  and  her  husband  had  returned  and  he 
was  settled  in  his  work,  he  did  interest  himself  in 
her  behalf  and  secured  for  her  a  position  as  teacher. 
So  it  came  about  that  she  made  her  home  with 
Ruth  as  was  suggested.  Ruth  greatly  encouraged 
her  to  active  Christian  work,  and  in  her  heart 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  317 

grew  up  the  peaceable  fruits  of  righteousness,  and 
the  dreadful  past  slipped  away.  Finally,  when  one 
of  the  best  and  most  prosperous  business  men  of 
the  city  asked  the  really  handsome  Mrs.  Les  Page 
to  share  his  name  and  home,  she  consented.  There 
was  little  romantic  fervor  about  this  second  mar- 
riage, but  Therese  was  as  well  satisfied.  Since 
that  day  her  life  has  been  a  constant  joy,  and  a 
happy  circle  of  boys  and  girls  is  growing  up  around 
her  hearthstone. 

That  remarkably  handsome  lad  over  there,  who, 
with  a  careless  grace,  has  just  thrown  his  arm 
about  Aunt  Louise,  somewhat  to  the  discomfiture 
of  the  latter's  own  nieces  and  nephews,  is  Therese's 
eldest.  She  calls  him  Richard. 

Marie,  too,  is  here  to  honor  the  day.  She  and 
her  daughters  are  resplendent  in  elegant  clothes. 
She  is  quite  as  dainty  and  pretty  as  ever.  Her 
husband  is  a  careful  business  man,  and  there  is  no 
reason  to  think  that  life  will  ever  be  otherwise  than 
what  it  is,  a  succession  of  luxuries ;  but  she  feels 
strangely  out  of  place  among  those  to  whom, 
though  neat  and  well-dressed,  clothes  are  only  a 
necessary  adjunct,  and  whose  conversation  runs  en- 
tirely upon  questions  and  topics  of  which  she  has 
scarcely  heard. 

Poor  Marie !  she  has  lived  and  is  living  her  nar- 


318  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

row  little  life.  The  prevailing  styles  and  petty  local 
society  triumphs  have  been  her  horizon.  She  reads 
a  little  of  the  daily  papers,  especially  that  part 
which  describes  society's  doings,  indulges  in  a 
novel  occasionally;  but  of  the  great  world  of 
thought  and  of  the  day's  moral  battles  she  is  igno- 
rant. Pity  for  poor  Marie  and  her  kind! 

Her  daughters  have  neither  her  beauty  nor  her 
dainty  ways.  Indeed,  as  we  catch  the  startling 
slang  that  falls  from  their  lips,  we  fear  they  border 
on  rudeness.  Margaret,  the  eldest,  is  older  than 
Asbury's  Louise.  She  is  already  a  blase  young 
lady,  who  has  quaffed  every  cup  of  pleasure  society 
has  to  offer.  She,  with  her  younger  sisters,  finds 
this  gathering  very  "stupid/'  although  the  young 
folks  have  planned  bicycle  races  up  and  down  the 
shady,  graveled  lane,  and  are  performing  miracles 
of  grace  with  Indian  clubs  and  dumb-bells,  and 
have  even,  after  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  erected  a 
tennis  court  in  the  grassy  meadow  beyond.  "But 
such  things  are  so  childish." 

We  have  spent  so  much  time  in  noting  the 
guests,  we  can  hardly  look  in  at  the  groaning  table, 
nor  pause  to  offer  our  congratulations  and  well- 
wishes  to  the  aged  pair  whose  hearts  are  so  happy 
to-day.  Nor  can  we  stop  to  listen  to  the  fun  of  the 


A.  FAMILY  REUNION  319 

younger  ones,  nor  even  study  the  characteristics  of 
any  of  this  younger  generation,  except  to  say  that 
all  bear  the  imprint  of  health.  The  mother  of  each 
set  of  children,  whether  in  college  town,  Kansas 
parsonage,  or  of  the  free  life  of  the  farm,  has  made 
physical  culture  a  specialty.  Their  clothes  are  made 
for  a  purpose,  rather  than  for  an  end.  Though  one 
or  two  of  the  group  have  reached  and  passed  the 
twentieth  year,  yet  the  talk  is  still  of  study;  so  we 
infer  they  are  all  walking  closely  in  the  paths  of 
their  elders.  But  the  day  is  waning;  Marie  has 
gone  to  her  home,  and  Therese  and  her  children 
have  accompanied  them. 

The  brothers  and  sisters  gather  in  the  dusk  in 
the  great  parlors,  and  mugh  of  the  family  history  is 
recounted.  Reminiscence  follows  reminiscence, 
and  it  is  not  strange  that  often  the  hearty  laugh 
rings  out.  But  the  reflections  are  not  all  thus 
cheerful;  for  that  other  happy  couple,  who  began 
life  also  fifty  years  before,  is  remembered,  and  all 
grow  hushed  in  genuine  pity  as  the  name  is  men- 
tioned. Nor  can  much  be  said,  for  that  sorrow  lies 
too  close  to  the  heart  of  one  of  their  own. 

This  aged  couple  has  indeed  reason  for  thanks- 
giving. As  their  children  gather  about  them,  each 
comes  as  a  servant  of  the  King;  and  what  matters 


32O  RICHARD  NEWCOMB 

it  whether  the  world  ever  bestows  its  plaudits,  the 
consciousness  of  an  honest,  upright  life  is  sufficient 
reward ! 

"To  have  acted  well  our  little  part — 
There  all  the  honor  lies." 


In  the  dusk  of  that  same  evening,  a  solitary 
figure,  that  of  a  woman,  might  have  been  seen 
picking  her  way  among  the  older  graves  of  the 
city  cemetery.  Presently  she  paused  beside  a 
sunken  one,  and  leaning  upon  the  plain  shaft  which 
marked  it,  she  murmured  the  one  word,  "Richard !" 

During  this  day  of  rejoicing,  brave  Louise  Ste- 
venson had  gone  about  with  such  an  ache  tugging 
at  her  heart  as  her  family  little  guessed. 

When  the  tall  and  well  formed  lads  and  lasses 
had  gathered  about  her  and  begged  for  a  song,  or 
the  younger  ones  with  greater  freedom  had  clam- 
bered upon  her  knee,  she  had  realized  anew  the 
depth  of  her  loss,  in  that  woman's  richest  crown  of 
wifehood  and  motherhood  had  been  denied  her. 
Further,  it  had  been  borne  in  upon  her  that  she  was 
a  stranger  in  her  own  land,  and  though  her  family 
held  her  dear,  yet  they  had  learned  to  do  without 
her.  She  had  lost  her  place  among  them ;  plainly 
her  "niche"  was  no  longer  here,  but  across  the  sea. 


A  FAMILY  REUNION  321 

In  a  short  time  she  must  turn  her  face  east- 
ward. A  few  more  years  of  work,  and  then  her 
body  would  rest,  not  here,  as  might  have  been 
its  right,  but  there,  in  a  mission  "God's  Acre." 
Abandoning  herself  to  her  grief,  she  knelt  by 
the  grave  of  her  youthful  lover.  The  past  came 
back  so  plainly.  How  beautiful  he  had  been !  how 
generous !  how  warm  the  impulses  of  his  heart ! 
how  gifted!  To  what  heights  might  he  have 
climbed!  But  kneeling  there,  as  with  lightning 
flash,  she  saw  the  fatal  web  that  had  been  woven 
about  him  from  his  very  boyhood.  She  heard 
again  the  mazy  tread  of  the  home  dance,  caught 
the  sparkle  of  the  home  wines,  and  listened  to  the 
cynical  sneer  concerning  things  holy. 

She  beheld  the  web  tighten  as  the  temptations 
of  college-life  assailed  him,  and  recalled  the  proud 
boast  of  his  chosen  college,  that  it  was  "broad, 
liberal,  and  unhampered  by  the  narrowness  of 
creed." 

"My  Darling  Richard!"  she  moaned  in  her 
agony.  "It  is  indeed  true,  men  can  not  gather 
grapes  from  planted  thistles,  and  your  wrecked  life 
was  after  all  but  natural  fruitage." 

But  alas,  that  the  harvest  should  be  so  bitter! 

21 


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3NA1.  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
III 


A     000127514     8 


